I managed to make it into a pajama shirt at least, an old one from high school, hanging off one shoulder and frayed at the bottom. Something warm is wrapped around my thigh. A minuscule lift of my head—one that sets my brain spinning—lets me know it’s just May, our legs both intertwined and also splayed across the bed in some sort of drunk feat of physics. When I thunk my head back down, May grunts, because said thunkage lands on her right boob, which has apparently been acting as my pillow.

“Are you going to puke again?” she mutters, none too gently pushing my head onto a real pillow.

“Not sure.” I hold my head as still as possible, not ready to find out.

“We are way too old for this shit.”

“Think we can Postmates Gatorade?” I shift my head a fraction of an inch and the room doesn’t rotate. Progress.

“And will they bring it directly to this bed? Because I do not plan to get up for at least twenty-four hours.” Her voice is now muffled by my quilt, which she has wrapped around her entire body, presumably to hide from the light and the sound of my voice.

There’s no reasonable explanation for why this is the moment I get the giggles, but one escapes my parched lips, and before I can control it, an avalanche of laughter spills forth.

“Oh my god, shut up.” May tries to throw a pillow at me, missing entirely

But my giggles are contagious, and once I get going, she can’t help but join. Before long, we’re curled up in tight cannonballs, hysterically laughing and, thankfully, not puking.

“Oh my god,” I choke out when I can finally form words. “I got dumped last night!”

The declaration sparks another wave of laughter. I clutch at my stomach, both as a way to continue to remain puke-free and because this is the most intense ab workout I’ve gotten in years.

“I thought I was going to marry him, and instead I got dumped!” My cackling continues for several seconds before I realize I’m the only one still laughing.

May manages to push herself into a sitting position, though the quilt is still wrapped around her like she’s a mummy. She brings herself too close to my face and stares dead-on into my eyes. “You are too good for that milquetoast motherfucker.”

I swallow down another laugh, which is on its way to morphing into another bout of tears, tears that I do not want to shed. Tears that wouldn’t so much be for Evan or our relationship, but for what this breakup means in the bigger picture of my life. “Good word.”

“I know.” She pulls her head free from the quilt. “I’m going to get in the shower. Then you are getting in the shower. Then we’re calling in sick and going for brunch.”