How to Look Happy Read Online Free

around like a rag doll, my head swimming, as Jeremy uses his spare key to click my car unlocked, open the door, and deposit me in a limp, sideways position in the driver’s seat. I slump against the seat, resting my left cheek on the headrest. “Can we go home first?”
    “I really need to talk now,” he says.
    I lift my hand in a weak interpretation of a gun and point it at him. “Shoot,” I say, giggling at my own cleverness.
    I hear him utter an impatient sigh. Then he launches into a story that, in my foggy state, seems as bizarre as a dream. By the time he’s finished talking I can’t hear him anymore because I’m shrieking at him. Finally he leaves me there—leaves me heavily inebriated behind the wheel of a vehicle to which I possess a key—and I realize none of this is a dream. It’s a nightmare.
    Carrie rushes over and fills the thick, black void Jeremy leaves in his wake.
    I’m buckled safely in my passenger seat with David behind the wheel when I realize the shudders racking through my body are from more than my shock and distress. The car’s air conditioner, still on high from this afternoon, is blasting cold air at the front of my shirt, which is soaked through with my tears.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Around 1:00 a.m. I land facedown on my bed, my phone in my hand. I’m just aware enough to feel embarrassed as Carrie pulls off my shoes and reaches under me to yank back my white matelassé coverlet and tuck me under my white sheets. I’d been kidding when I said I was planning to call in sick the next day, but now the likelihood of it seems imminent.
    Carrie disappears, and I’ve almost dozed off when she comes back and perches on the bed beside me. She pokes me on the shoulder, and I half-turn, vaguely aware that she’s squirting liquid into the two small compartments of my contact lens case. She pokes me again, and I groan.
    “Here,” she commands, patting my arm until I grudgingly prop myself up in bed enough to pinch a lens from my right eye. She takes it and expertly places it into the case, caps it, and waits until I hand her the left. What an awesome friend , I manage to think.
    “You’ll thank me for this tomorrow morning,” she says and then adjusts the bedding again before walking toward the door and turning out the light. I wonder for about one second how we got here and how she got into my house, then my eyes start to close.
    They open again when the front door of my old house opens and shuts with a loud creak and a thud. My miniature schnauzer, Simon, who’d settled across my feet, leaps from the bed with his collar tags jangling, and I’m jolted into fuzzy awareness. The events of the day and evening flash behind my eyes, and my temper flares. All I can think about are Carrie’s words in the bar earlier: “You’re going to fight back.” With a surge of energy, I reach for the phone that’s poking out from under my pillow and start tapping angrily at the screen before losing steam and passing out.

CHAPTER THREE
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    It’s about six hours later when I wake up with my head spinning and my bladder screaming at me. I’ve never been able to sleep well when I’m drunk. I lift myself slightly, and the sunlight filtering around the edges of my matchstick blinds lights up the room enough for me to squint and spot the glass of water and bottle of Advil Carrie must have put on the nightstand beside me, along with my glasses. I’m horrendously nearsighted and need to sign up for LASIK surgery, but the idea of being awake and aware while laser beams slice through my corneas makes me queasy in a whole different way than I’m feeling right now.
    I smile at my best friend’s thoughtfulness before a strong wave of nausea lands me flat against the pillow again. “Aaagh,” I moan, waiting out my churning stomach before trying again to pull myself into a seated position.
    When I swing my legs off the bed, they knock into a small metal trash can that Carrie has pulled over to rest