“With what?” I attempt to sit up, but I’m wrapped like a burrito, making it next to impossible. I shift to the left, then to the right, loosening the confines around me. That’s when I notice the lettering, the scratchy fabric . . . and the damp feeling on my stomach. Oh God.

Nichole’s one-night stand.

Feeling cold.

The flag . . .

“Dear Jesus, did I . . . did I wet myself?” I ask.

“What? Myla, please tell me that’s not true.”

Let’s pray it’s not.

“I don’t normally wet myself,” I say as Nichole helps lift me and then unravels me from the flag.

“What are you doing wrapped in this?”

“That Ryot guy wouldn’t give me a blanket.”

“You met Banner’s brother?” Nichole asks as she strips me of the flag, revealing an empty Capri Sun pouch resting on my “wet spot.” Both of us heave a sigh of relief. Well, that is a gift. Peeing faculties are still intact.

“Ryot is Banner’s brother? Wow, they look nothing alike.” I stand, and a few grapes fall to the ground.

“Where the hell were those stashed away?”

“Can’t be sure.” I take the flag from Nichole and bring it over to the wall. “Help me with this. If anything, we are tidy house guests.”

We reach up to the Velcro but aren’t quite tall enough to reach the top.

“Let’s just fold it like a blanket,” Nichole suggests.

“No, I got this.” I stand under the Velcro on the wall, line up my hand with the Velcro on the flag, and then leap into the air and slap one side of the flag to the wall. Victorious, I do the other side and then step back to admire my work.

“It’s crooked,” Nichole says.

“Yeah, and it didn’t have that Capri Sun wet spot on it either, or the grapes. But hey, at least we hung it.”

“We sure did.” We offer each other a high five and then head out the door.

“Diner?” Nichole asks.

“Where else would we perform the walk of shame?”

We call an Uber to take us to our favorite corner diner where the late-night partiers convene and try to remember what indiscretions they participated in the night before. We are avid diners on the weekend.

Once in our seats and our food’s on the way—thanks to being well known by the waitstaff—Nichole pulls out her phone and starts searching through Instagram while I slip an electrolyte tablet from my purse and into my water.

“So how was he?” I ask.

“Easily the best orgasm of my life,” Nichole says.

“Ooo, really?”

“Oh yeah. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me.”

“I was in a grape coma.” I fiddle with the paper from my straw. “But I’m glad you had your pipes cleaned.”

“God, don’t say that.” We both chuckle, and then . . . “Oh shit.”

“What?” I ask.

Smiling, she turns her phone toward me. On the screen is a picture of the crooked flag posted by a Ryot.Bisley.Balls. In the comments, it reads: To the girl who used my flag as a blanket and napkin last night, I hope you were comfortable.