“Boxed-wine gasoline,” I said as I rubbed my forehead. At thirty-seven years old, the hangovers came much swifter than they had a decade before, when all I had to do was drink a glass of water before bed. Now, anything more than two drinks, and I felt it the next day. Not to mention the consequences if one of those drinks contained the sugar equivalent of a liter of Mountain Dew.

He shook his head, chuckling. “Well, that would explain it.” He picked up his phone from the dresser and glanced at it. “I have to head out. I have a meeting with my sales team in an hour.” He leaned forward and was about to kiss me on the mouth but thought better of it, and his lips brushed my dry cheek.

“Thanks again. You’re the best,” I said.

“You know it.” He winked at me and then turned to leave our bedroom. “A cold shower might help.”

I saluted him as he disappeared into the hallway, wholly unprepared to start the summer.

—

Two hours later, my headache was mostly gone, thanks to copious amounts of caffeine. I sat outside on the front porch, watching as Emily and Jack ran back and forth in the sprinkler. From around the corner, I could hear the rev of a backhoe as it dug into Liz’s yard, prepping the corner of it for the She Shed. I imagined her hangover wasn’t helped by the noise, either.

I smiled as I thought of our ladies’ night, of allowing ourselves to be people, even if it was for a fleeting moment. It felt like so much of my time was devoted to everyone else. When I did get an evening of respite, it buoyed my spirits for days. It also helped that my three friends were some of the best people I had ever met.

I held a sweating can of LaCroix in my hand as I scrolled through my phone to find a recipe for dinner, determined not to make pizza or pasta again. In my peripheral vision, I saw Melissa walking across my yard. She was an impossible figure to miss, her glossy dark hair cascading down her back, as she strode closer with a confidence I had always envied. She had her shit together.

“Amy, what is that ridiculous noise? How can you sit out here?” Melissa appeared on my sidewalk, wearing black workout pants and a white tank top. Her kids, seven-year-old Rachel and six-year-old twins Ethan and Owen, trailed behind her. They all broke into a run when they saw the sprinkler, standing over it in their clothes.

“Kids, I told you not to get wet or dirty, and I meant it.” Her eyes flashed with annoyance before she shook her head in defeat. She could silence a conference room full of men with one gaze, but she struggled to keep her brood in line. As we all did.