The Kissing Booth

CHARLOTTE'S POV

"Run, Forrest, run!!!" I screamed at my TV, the words coming out as a muffled honk because I was currently blowing my nose for the umpteenth time. I tossed the tissue over my shoulder, adding it to the growing mountain of white fluff that looked like a very sad, very un-magical indoor snowstorm.

I was in a dark place. I was literally dying. My soul had exited my body through my tear ducts three days ago, leaving behind nothing but a husk of a woman who currently smelled like old lo mein and existential dread.

"Char! Are you in there?" My best friend's voice hammered against the door, vibrating through my skull. Fiona had been pounding on that door every day for the last sixty-two hours, ever since I'd left that voicemail... the one where I sounded like a dying walrus being put through a woodchipper. "That's it, I'm calling the building manager to let me in!" she shouted.

I winced.

That was a tactical strike.

I owed Mr. Beaver three months of back rent, and if that man stepped foot in here and saw the current state of my existence, I'd be homeless on top of being spiritually deceased.

"You hear me, Char? I'm calling Mr. Beaver!"

"Fine!" I croaked.

I paused the TV, grabbed my grey blanket of shame, and wrapped it around myself like a very depressed burrito. I shoved my feet into my bunny slippers that had one ear missing, much like my will to live and navigated the obstacle course of greasy takeout containers and empty wine bottles.

I unlocked the deadbolt, slid the chain free, and opened the door.

Fiona stood there looking offensively put together for someone who had just threatened to break into my apartment.

She had a round, doll-like face framed by a wild halo of dark curls. Heart-shaped sunglasses sat on her nose, and a cherry lollipop dangled from the corner of her mouth. Her signature look.

She didn't wait for an invitation.

She swept past me, trailing expensive perfume that immediately lost a violent battle against the current scent profile of my apartment.

She stopped dead.

"Oh God! Did something die in here?" she asked, fanning her nose with a manicured hand.

"No," I croaked, plopping back onto the couch and disappearing into my blanket nest.

"Then what is that god-awful smell?"

"It's me," I whispered. "I haven't showered since Tuesday."

Fiona inhaled through her nose, then immediately regretted it.

"Okay, you need to snap out of this funk immediately," Fiona said. She marched to the windows and yanked the blinds open.

Sunlight stabbed directly into my eyeballs.

I hissed and threw my hands over my face like a vampire shamefully feasting on a priest. "Don't be dramatic, Charlotte. You're acting like a creature of the night."

She walked over, used two fingers to gingerly pinch a used tissue sitting next to me, and tossed it into the trash with a look of pure disgust. Then she sat down, crossing her legs.

"Charlotte. Talk to me."

I sniffled.

"You left a voicemail three days ago crying about your impending death," she continued. "Half of it was unintelligible, but it sounded like someone was murdering you with farm equipment. I got the first flight back from Vegas just to check on you."

"Fiona, you didn't have to do that," I said, my lip trembling. "I'm fine. Really. I've reached the 'accepting my fate' stage of grief."

"No, babe, I'm fine," she snapped, her eyes narrowing behind her shades. "You look like you've been living under a bridge. Tell me what happened. And don't give me the edited version."

"I don't even know where to start."

"Start at the beginning," Fiona said. "The beginning usually involves a man doing something incredibly stupid."

I sucked in a breath so deep my lungs protested.

"Three days ago was supposed to be magical, F*e. My one-year anniversary with Lucas."

Her expression soured immediately.

"I spent three months' rent on a vintage watch I absolutely could not afford because I am a gullible idiot who believes in love."

I wiped my nose on my sleeve.

"I used my lunch break to surprise him. I pulled up to his house and immediately noticed the vibe was... intense."

"Intense how?"

"I smelled lavender oil," I said weakly. "And there were candles burning through the windows."

Fiona groaned. "Never trust a man who lights candles at two in the afternoon. That's suspicious behavior."

"I didn't know that!" I wailed. "I had forty-five minutes before I had to be back at the office. I thought I'd give him a little anniversary appetizer. I kicked off my shoes, tiptoed upstairs, and heard this... sexy classical music."

"Oh God!"

"I got completely naked in the hallway. I'm talking full-body confidence, F*e. I burst into that bedroom with my well-waxed pussy and my bee-sting-sized breasts on full display, ready to take what was mine."

I paused, the trauma flashing before my eyes like a neon sign in hell.

"I yelled, 'Happy Anniversary, Lucas!'"

Fiona leaned in, her lollipop forgotten. "And?"

"I froze. They froze. It was like a game of Mannequin Challenge. My mouth fell to the floor. Their mouths fell to the... well, to each other."

"They? So he was cheating."

"Yes." I choked back a sob. "Lucas was positioned between a woman's legs. Her knees were bent at an angle that should only be possible for a Cirque du Soleil performer. Her knees were literally touching her shoulders. And Lucas was... he was buried deep inside her."

"Gross, but standard cheating," Fiona muttered. "Who was the bitch?"

"Wait," I gasped. "There's more."

"What... more?"

"Behind Lucas... there was a man. And he was buried balls-deep in Lucas's bottom. It was a human shish-kebab, Fiona."

"No!" Fiona gulped.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"I looked at the woman. I looked at the man. And all I could scream was: 'Mom? Dad?'"

The silence in the room was deafening for exactly three seconds. Then Fiona exploded.

"WAIT ONE FUCKING MINUTE!" she shrieked, jumping off the couch so fast her glasses flew onto the rug. "You caught your parents and your boyfriend in a mid-day devil's triangle?"

"Yes! My boyfriend and my parents were having a threesome!" I began to bawl, huge, ugly heaves that shook my entire frame. "I can't unsee it! I can't un-smell the lavender!"

"Oh, honey!" Fiona lunged forward, pulling my head onto her chest. "Let it all out. That is... honestly, that is the most horrific thing I have ever heard. And I once saw a man eat a live hamster for a bet."

"I feel like I'm dying," I sobbed into her expensive silk blouse. "I'm going to have to go to therapy until I'm ninety."

"I know, babe," Fiona said, stroking my hair. "So, I assume you called me here to help you dispose of the bodies? Because I have a contact in the desert who doesn't ask questions."

I sniffled, pulling back and blinking at her. "What?"

"We're going to need shovels, heavy-duty garbage bags, lye, and maybe some bleach for the carpet," she told me, her face completely deadpan. "I have a trunk organizer that's perfect for supplies."

"Wait! F*e, I didn't kill them!"

Fiona actually looked disappointed. She let out a long, frustrated sigh. "What? Why not? That's a justifiable homicide if I've ever heard one. Any jury in the world would give you a standing ovation. So what are we doing sitting here? We ride at dawn. We can still catch them at brunch."

I let out a wet, hysterical chuckle. "Will you stop? We're not murdering my parents. Even if they are... flexible monsters."

"Is that a smile I see?" she asked, poking my cheek. "There she is. The dramatic bitch I know and love."

"Yes, it is. Thanks for coming, F*e. I think I would have dissolved into the upholstery if you hadn't shown up."

"You're welcome." She gave me one more squeeze before standing up and surveying the wreckage of my life. "So, what's the plan?"

"I don't know," I sighed, looking at my bunny slippers. "But I can't stay in this town. Every time I see a lavender candle or a classical music CD, I'm going to have a stroke."

Fiona's eyes lit up. "I feel you. That's exactly why I left. This place is a stagnant pond. Why don't you move to Vegas with me?"

"Fiona, I don't know... Vegas is a lot. I'm more of a 'crying in a blanket' girl than a 'dancing on a table' girl right now."

"Bullshit. You're a 'dancing on a table until you forget your own name' girl. Besides," she leaned in, her voice persuasive, "I have a friend who works at one of the biggest PR firms on the Strip. He owes me a favor because I didn't tell his wife about that incident with the showgirl and the glitter glue. I can hook you up with an interview. You can finally put that degree to use at a real company and not that shit show one that is underpaying you."

"Like how you're putting your law degree to use by being a high-end party planner for drunk bachelor parties?" I asked, a bit of my old sass leaking through the trauma.

"Exactly! It's called 'functional prestige,'" she grinned, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet. "Come on, Char. Say yes. New city, new men, zero parents in bed with your boyfriend. It's a low bar, but Vegas will clear it."

I looked around the room, at the tissues, the Forrest Gump credits rolling silently, and the ghost of my sanity. I sighed, a massive weight lifting off my chest.

"Alright, fine. Pack my bags. I'm moving to Vegas."