Chapter 77: Land O Lakes

The morning sun feels like a thousand tiny daggers stabbing into my eyes as we shuffle into the local breakfast joint. The cheerful jingle of the bell above the door might as well be a foghorn blasting directly into my skull. I squint against the assault of light and sound, grateful for Erica’s steady hand guiding me toward our table.

We collapse into the vinyl-covered booth, a symphony of groans and muttered curses rising from our group. The laminated menus in front of us might as well be written in ancient Sumerian for all the sense they’re making to my addled brain.

“Coffee,” Brooke croaks, her usually perfectly styled hair a wild nest atop her head. “I need coffee like I need air.”

Tessa, somehow managing to look gothically chic even in her hungover state, merely grunts in agreement. Her sunglasses remain firmly in place, shielding her eyes from the world’s cruelties.

As we settle in, I can’t help but notice that Justine seems... fine. More than fine, actually. She’s sitting up straight, her fiery red hair catching the sunlight streaming through the window, a small smile playing on her lips as she peruses the menu.

“How?” I manage to croak out, my voice sounding like I’ve been gargling gravel. “How are you not dying right now?”

Justine looks up, her green eyes clear and bright. “Oh, I just made sure to drink a lot of water last night,” she says, her voice at a perfectly normal volume that still somehow manages to make my head throb. “You know, between drinks and before bed. Works like a charm.”

Tara, looking more like a dejected ink smudge this morning, narrows her bloodshot eyes at Justine. “I didn’t see you drinking any water,” she challenges, her words slightly slurred from what I suspect is still-lingering intoxication rather than just a hangover.

Nikki, who has been face-down on the table until now, lifts her head just enough to fix Tara with a bleary-eyed stare. “That’s because you blacked out first, Tara,” she mumbles, each word seeming to cost her considerable effort. “You were gone before midnight.”

Tara glares at Nikki, her bloodshot eyes narrowing to slits. “You always take Justine’s side,” she hisses, her voice dripping with accusation. The words seem to take more effort than she anticipated, and she lets her head fall to the table with a dull thud, followed by a groan of pain that sounds like it’s coming from the depths of her very soul.

“God,” she mumbles into the laminate surface, her voice muffled but still audible in the quiet diner. “Everything’s different now. Senior year, and everyone’s changed except me.” The words hang in the air, heavy with a mixture of self-pity and genuine melancholy.

Erica snorts, the sound sharp and sudden in the relative quiet. She leans back in the booth, her arm draped possessively over my shoulders. “That’s not true,” she says, her voice a mixture of amusement and something harder to define. “Now you’ve got an easy fuck whenever you want.”

Tara’s head snaps up at this, her eyes wide with surprise. For a moment, she looks like she’s about to argue, but then a chuckle escapes her lips. It’s an awkward sound caught somewhere between genuine amusement and embarrassment. “True,” she admits, her lips quirking into a lopsided smile.

Brooke, who’s been watching this exchange with growing irritation, finally speaks up. Her voice is tight with annoyance, her words clipped and precise despite her obvious hangover. “Can we stop talking about sex for five minutes?” she asks, her eyes darting nervously to the neighboring tables. “We’re in public for crying out loud.”

Tessa, who’s been silent up until now, slowly removes her sunglasses. Her grey eyes, usually so cool and composed, are bloodshot but still manage to convey a sense of amusement. She fixes Brooke with a steady gaze, one eyebrow arched in a challenge.

“We’re girls,” Tessa says simply as if this explains everything. Her voice is low and husky, still rough from the night before. “Sex is what we do. It’s who we are.”

Erica pipes up, her voice cutting through the diner’s ambient noise. “Speaking of sex, the other day Jason told me something interesting,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “He said it’s sexual assault if a boy jerks off onto a girl while she’s sleeping. Can you believe that?”

The table falls silent for a moment, a mix of confusion and disbelief on everyone’s faces. I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment, wishing I could disappear into the vinyl booth.

Erica continues, her tone incredulous. “I mean, no girl here would ever consider that assault, right?”

Nikki is the first to respond, shaking her head emphatically despite her obvious hangover. “No way,” she says firmly. “That’s just... I mean, it’s flattering, if anything.”

Justine nods in agreement, her red hair catching the sunlight. “Yeah, I wouldn’t love it personally because I’m a lesbian,” she explains, “but I don’t know any girls who are even kinda straight that wouldn’t be into it.”

Tara, still looking worse for wear, manages to lift her head from the table. “Totally,” she slurs, her voice rough. “It’s like... a sexy compliment, you know?”

Tessa leans forward, her gray eyes gleaming with an almost predatory intensity as they rake over me.

“If I woke up to someone like Jason blowing rope all over me,” she purrs, her voice low and husky, “I’d go absolutely wild.”

There’s something dangerous in her gaze, a glint of mischief mixed with something darker, more primal. It makes me extremely uncomfortable.

Erica’s arm tightens around me possessively, her fingers digging into my shoulder as she see’s it too. “That’s enough,” she snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Tessa’s smile only widens, her eyes never leaving mine. “That’s why I said ‘someone like Jason,’” she says smoothly, “and not Jason himself.”

The tension at the table is palpable. Erica’s body is coiled like a spring next to me, radiating annoyance. Across the table, Brooke squirms in her seat, her face a brilliant shade of crimson. She seems to be trying to make herself as small as possible, her eyes darting around the diner as if searching for an escape route.

I clear my throat, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence. “Surely a sister would at least hate that kind of attention from her brother,” I blurt out, immediately regretting the words as soon as they leave my mouth.

‘Wait, this is weird Brooke.’ I forgot, she’s probably just as horny as the rest of them.

The words hang in the air for a moment, heavy and charged. Brooke’s face, already flushed from the hangover and embarrassment, turns an even deeper shade of crimson. Her eyes widen, darting around the table as if searching for an escape route.

“I... I don’t know what I’d do if something so... so lewd happened,” Brooke stammers. She fidgets with her napkin, twisting it between her fingers. “Can we please talk about something else? Anything else?”

Justine, sensing Brooke’s discomfort, jumps in. “Damn, I wish I’d brought the lunch topics with me,” she says, her voice light and airy in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

Nikki shakes her head, her short brown hair falling into her eyes. “There’s a time and a place, Justine,” she mutters, massaging her temples. “And a crowded diner while we’re all hungover as hell is neither the time nor the place.”

Just then, the cheerful jingle of the diner’s bell cuts through the awkward silence. A group of police officers file in, their crisp uniforms and easy smiles a stark contrast to our disheveled, hungover state. They make their way to a large booth on the other side of the diner, chatting and laughing amongst themselves.

As they pass our table, one of the officers, a tall woman, catches sight of Tessa. Her face lights up with recognition.

“Well, well, well,” the officer drawls, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. “If it isn’t my favorite cousin.”

Tessa looks up, her gray eyes glinting with a mixture of surprise and something darker, more calculated. A slow smile spreads across her face, transforming her hangover-weary features into a mask of cool composure.

“Nicole,” Tessa drawls, her voice low and smooth. “Fancy running into you here.”

The cop saunters over, her movements casual yet purposeful. She holds out a fist, which Tessa bumps with practiced ease. The contrast between Tessa’s gothic attire and the officer’s uniform is stark, yet there’s an undeniable similarity in their confident postures.

“You know,” the officer says, her tone shifting to one of exaggerated forgetfulness, “I completely forgot that you said you’d be in town this week.” Her words sound practiced.

Tessa’s lips curl into a pout, her eyes widening in mock hurt. “How could you forget about me, cousin dearest?” she asks, her voice dripping with feigned disappointment. “I’m wounded, truly.”

The officer’s arrogant smile widens, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving off Tessa’s theatrical display. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to soldier on without my attention.”

She glances back at her fellow officers, who are settling into their booth with an air of impatience. “Listen,” she says, turning back to Tessa, “I gotta go join the girls in blue over there. But hey, hit me up if you need anything, alright?”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. The rest of us at the table exchange confused glances, sensing the undercurrent of something unspoken between the cousins.

Tessa’s smile turns predatory, a glint of something dangerous flashing in her eyes. “Of course,” she purrs, her voice low and silky. “You know I’m not afraid to bother you.”

Officer Nicole laughs at Tessa’s words as she sits down with her cop friends.

As Officer Nicole settles in with her colleagues, the diner seems to come alive with a new energy. The clinking of cutlery against plates mingles with the low hum of conversation, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from the officers’ table. Sunlight streams through the large windows, casting a warm glow over the worn linoleum floors and chrome-edged tables.

Brooke’s brow furrows, her hazel eyes darting between Tessa and the group of officers. “I didn’t know you had cop friends in this town,” she says, her voice tinged with confusion and a hint of suspicion.

Tessa shrugs, her black-painted nails drumming a lazy rhythm on the tabletop. “My cousin loves it here,” she replies, her tone nonchalant.

I pipe up, eager to contribute to the conversation. “Our mom used to be a cop, but she just retired,” I offer proudly.

Tessa nods her expression one of practiced disinterest. “I know,” she says flatly, her grey eyes fixed on a point somewhere over my shoulder.

Brooke’s eyebrows shoot up. “I already told her,” she explains, her voice carrying a note of apology.

“Oh,” I mumble.

Erica, bored with the current conversation, swoops in to change the subject. She leans in close, her blonde hair tickling my cheek as she asks, “What are you gonna get, babe?”

I scan the menu, the words swimming slightly before my eyes. “An omelette,” I decide, “with American cheese and bacon.”

Tara’s eyes widened in horror, her nose wrinkling as if she’d just caught a whiff of something particularly foul.

“American cheese?” she practically spits the words out, her voice dripping with disgust. “Really, Jason? That’s barely even cheese! It’s like... plastic masquerading as dairy.”

I roll my eyes, feeling a surge of annoyance. “What’s your problem with American cheese?” I snap, and my hangover is making me more irritable than usual.

Tara launches into a tirade, her hands gesticulating wildly. “It’s processed garbage! It doesn’t even melt properly. It just... congeals. Like some sort of cheese-adjacent abomination. I can’t believe you’d willingly put that in your body.”

“Well, what cheese do you like then?” I ask.

Tara sits up straighter, a smug smile spreading across her face. “Cheddar,” she declares proudly as if she’s just announced she’s discovered the cure for cancer. “Sharp, tangy, complex. Now that’s a real cheese.”

Something in her tone, that air of superiority, ignites a spark of defiance in me. I feel an arrogant bubble expanding in my stomach, a surge of know-it-all energy coursing through my veins.

‘What an idiot. She doesn’t even know.’ I chortle in my mind palace as I prepare to drop a bomb on her.

“Oh, cheddar, huh?” I say, my voice taking on a condescending lilt. “Well, did you know that legally, American cheese has to be at least 80% cheddar?”

I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling incredibly pleased with myself. The words tumble out, each one dripping with smug satisfaction. “That’s right, your precious cheddar is the main ingredient in the very cheese you claim to despise. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Tara’s jaw drops, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. “No way,” she sputters. “That can’t be right.”

Justine, pulls out her phone. Her fingers fly over the screen as she types in a quick search. The table falls silent, all eyes on Justine as she scrolls through the results.

After what feels like an eternity, Justine looks up, her green eyes meeting mine. “Actually,” she says slowly, “that’s not true. American cheese doesn’t have to be 80% cheddar. It has to be at least 51% of a blend of cheeses, but there’s no legal requirement for cheddar content.”

The bubble of arrogance in my stomach bursts, leaving me feeling deflated and embarrassed. Tara’s face splits into a triumphant grin, her earlier hangover seemingly forgotten in the wake of my humiliation.

“This fucking sucks,” I mutter, slumping further into the vinyl booth. The sticky surface clings to my skin, a tangible reminder of my embarrassment. I can’t help but think Justine should have just lied for my sake, spared me this moment of humiliation. The weight of my incorrect assertion sits heavy in my stomach, churning alongside the remnants of last night’s alcohol.

Erica’s chuckle cuts through my self-pity, light and musical. She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear as she whispers, “I still love you, even if you like American cheese.”

“Thanks.” I weakly speak, still feeling small from my blunder.