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Ingrid sets her tray on the table. Even this late in the evening, the dining hall is still busy. But there is more food to be had, and Ingrid is starving.
More or less. Her last meal was two hours ago, making it the perfect time for a snack.
Dorothea eyes the plates of food piled high on her tray. "How do you eat so much?"
"Lacrosse," Ingrid answers. She stuffs her face with what the dining hall claims to be a burger. It’s round and in a bun. The rest is a mystery.
"It's been years, and I'm still not used to seeing it."
She shrugs. "I just like food."
"I like you," Dorothea says.
"I like you too."
"If you like me so much, why don't you marry me?"
"Don't tempt me."
"I'm tempting you."
"Give me a few years. I'm in college, drowning in debt. I certainly can't afford the elaborate wedding you deserve yet," says Ingrid. She shoves an inane amount of fries into her mouth. One hangs out as she chews like a donkey.
"It'll give me something to look forward to," Dorothea hums happily. "Speaking of, my birthday is this weekend."
Ingrid nearly chokes on her food. "I definitely remembered that before just now."
"I'm very excited! I'm going home for the weekend to have a birthday dinner with Manuela."
"Sounds like fun."
"You're invited too, obviously. Manuela loves you."
"I would hope so. I practically lived at your house when we were in high school."
"So you'll be there?"
"Of course I will. There's gonna be food. Also, it's your birthday, and I love you."
Dorothea frowns. "Did you have to order your reasons that way?"
"I'm hungry!" Ingrid reasons.
Her friend sighs. "No sense flirting with you on an empty stomach." She steals one of Ingrid's fries.
The table is set for three. Manuela serves a delicious meal of Chinese takeout from Dorothea's favorite restaurant. Ingrid slurps down a carton of lo mein. She grabs a second egg roll to wash it down before finishing off with a heaping helping of teriyaki chicken with fried rice. All the while, Manuela is still on her first plate.
"It's your twenty-first birthday," Manuela says, poking at her fried rice. "And we're sitting here eating takeout."
"You don't cook, and we don't have money for groceries," Dorothea answers. "I'm happy with takeout. It's more about spending time with my two favorite people."
"Your mother and your girlfriend."
"Best friend," Ingrid corrects her.
"Soon enough." Manuela takes a sip from her wine glass. "I still think we should celebrate with something... more. My twenty-first birthday was a riot. At least, what I remember of it."
"We don't have to go overboard,” Dorothea says. “I'm fine with something small.”
"I'm not saying we go overboard. I'm saying you let your suspiciously young-looking mother take you out for your first drink!"
"You want to take me to a bar?"
"Of course I do! I'll be the designated driver!"
"You have a glass of wine in your hand right now," Ingrid points out.
Manuela glances down at her half-empty cup. She takes one last sip and sets it aside. "I'll be the designated driver starting now."
"We still can't go."
"Why not?"
"I won’t be twenty-one for a few more months."
"Nonsense, darling. I'll get you a fake ID. I might still have an old one of mine hiding around." She waves her hand in the air.
"Is that a good idea?"
"I thought of it, didn't I?"
"That doesn't answer my question," Ingrid says.
Manuela frowns. "We're going out tomorrow night. To my favorite bar."
"Which one?" Dorothea wonders. She leans in with great interest.
"The Boogie Bar."
"The karaoke club?"
Her mother grins. "You know it. I'm a bit of a celebrity there."
"I bet you are. An actual Broadway star in a small-time bar like that? We have to go now. I miss singing with you." Dorothea turns to Ingrid. "And you'll be there too, of course."
"Uh-huh." Ingrid continues slurping her noodles.
Ingrid sits in the backseat of Manuela’s tiny sedan. She holds the card in her hand, squinting at every detail. "Are you sure they'll let me in with this? I look nothing like the girl in the photo."
"You're both white and blonde," Dorothea states. "That's all you need."
"You'll get in," Manuela says. "They never carded me whenever I went."
Ingrid furrows her brow. "But you're-"
"I'm what?” She hums. “Old?" She sends a terrifying glance at the mirror, making Ingrid shake with fear in the back seat.
"Famous! I was gonna say famous," Ingrid recovers smoothly. "You said you were a celebrity there. Of course they wouldn't card you. Everyone already knows you already."
"You make a wonderful point. I don't think you'll have any trouble getting through the door with me by your side."
She glances down at the phony driver's license once more. "Why is my name Cheryl?"
"She was the only blonde I could find," Manuela says.
Ingrid frowns. "I don't think I look like a Cheryl. And I definitely don't look twenty five."
"You don't," Dorothea chimes in. She squints as she takes in Ingrid's rugged, acne-ridden features. "You look more like a Susie."
"Susie?" Ingrid scoffs. "No way."
"You're right. Avery."
"I am not an Avery."
"Then, a handsome name like Casper, or Bjorn."
That elicits an unknown emotion in Ingrid's chest. She is not sure if she wants to proceed further on the matter. "Cheryl is fine for tonight. But I like Ingrid."
Eventually, they arrive at their destination. A small crowd of people stand outside, most smoking cigarettes, others just talking casually. A bouncer stands outside the door. Ingrid swallows nervously. The next few seconds could make or break the entire night.
Cautiously, Ingrid approaches. Dorothea takes the lead with Manuela by her side. The bouncer eyes them. He opens the door. "Come right on in."
Ingrid is free. A weight lifts off her shoulders.
"You're not going to card me?" Dorothea asks. Ingrid nearly dies.
"It's her birthday!" Manuela says. "You have to card her on her twenty-first birthday! It's a riteof passage."
The bouncer sighs. "Fine." He holds his hand out, and Dorothea hands him her license. He squints at it for a moment before handing it back. "Head on in."
Dorothea steps inside. Ingrid follows behind, wanting the nightmare to be over. Manuela lingers a moment, eyeing the bouncer. The man stares back at her. He holds the door open, waiting for her to step through.
"Go ahead, miss." He nods toward the door.
"So that's how it is," Manuela mumbles to herself, walking in
Ingrid takes in the bar around her. It's crowded on the weekend, and Saturday is no exception. People huddle over the bar drinking cheap beer and talking loudly over the music. In the other room, a stage is set up. The DJ stands at the side adding commentary between sets. He calls out a name, and a woman bounces up to the stage. She grabs a microphone, and the song begins. Ingrid isn't sure what to expect. A very drunken performance begins. It takes a while for the woman to get used to the flow, but eventually, she sings her song decently.
"What are you gonna drink?" Dorothea asks. She nudges Ingrid in the side.
"Uh, water? Maybe a coke," Ingrid answers.
"A rum and coke?" Manuela wonders.
"Just regular coke."
"You're no fun. Drink with us! It's Dorothea's birthday! Don't make her drink alone."
"What happened to the dangers of peer pressure?" Ingrid squints at her.
"Screw peer pressure! I'm a responsible adult and basically your mom. Have a drink. It's on me tonight."
Dorothea drags her friend to the bar. Ingrid has never drank alcohol in her life, nor has she any idea what to order. Beer exists. Does it taste good?
"One beer, please," Ingrid says at the counter.
The bartender looks at her oddly. "What kind of beer? Blue Light?"
"Yes. That."
"Can do." She looks at Dorothea. "And you?"
"What'll it be, birthday girl?" Manuela sings to her daughter.
"Tequila Sunrise," Dorothea orders with full confidence.
"It's your birthday?" The bartender stops her.
"Yeah!"
"Sweet. For birthdays, we let you spin the wheel of shots."
"Oh?" Manuela leans in with intrigue. "A round of shots sound wonderful."
The song ends, and the crowd cheers. The performer hops off stage.
Suddenly, the volume cranks to eleven. LMFAO's Shots starts blasting over the speakers.
Ingrid nearly has a heart attack from the shock. Dorothea spins the wheel, each section labeled with a music-themed drink. It skims over something called the ‘Circle Jerk’ (Ingrid is relieved as it misses), and onto a drink titled ‘Purple Haze’.
The bartender pours three shots, all a pretty shade of purple. Manuela happily grabs one and holds it high. "To growing old!"
Dorothea does not seem ready to celebrate. She frowns.
"You're the designated driver." She nudges her mother sharply.
"Ah, right! I'll start with water." Manuela quickly corrects herself. She turns to the bartender with a sad look in her eye. "Would you, please? I'm the designated driver tonight."
The bartender pours her water in a pitiful plastic cup. Manuela takes it and frowns at it.
"I love you." Dorothea pecks her mother on the cheek to soften the blow to her ego.
"Drink my shot in my honor," Manuela says with a sigh.
Dorothea takes the second shot into her hand. She looks to Ingrid. "Shall we?"
"Y-yeah," Ingrid says.
Dorothea knocks back her shot with ease. Ingrid does the same. She swallows quickly, not taking the chance of tasting it in full. The alcohol leaves a lingering burn along with a slightly sour aftertaste. Somewhere in there Ingrid can taste grape. It's pleasantly sweet and sour, almost covering the taste of alcohol completely. Almost. Ingrid winces at the bitterness. Dorothea downs her second shot.
"I'm ready to go," she says. Ingrid is thoroughly impressed.
With another round of drinks in hand, the three set out to find a table. They manage to find an open spot squished toward the front by the stage. A few people hang in the back playing darts. Some play pool. One couple dances to a breakup song in front of the stage. Most are too drunk to pay attention to anything.
Dorothea thumbs through the catalog of songs. "What should I sing? There's too many good songs to choose from. Should I start with show tunes? Or warm up with something simpler?"
"I'll sing just about anything," says Manuela. She leans over Dorothea's shoulder. "How about we start with a duet? Just like old times."
"Oh? Which song did you have in mind?"
She leans in to whisper in Dorothea's ear. Her daughter's eyes go wide. "I see..."
Ingrid has no idea what is going on. She takes a sip of her beer only for it to taste disgusting. People base their entire personalities off this drink. Why? There's no time to think. She needs this liquid gone before she has to taste it more. She tips her head back and gulps down the rest of it. It leaves her feeling dizzy.
“Next on the list is Dimitri. Will Dimitri come up?” The DJ calls out. No one stands up. People glance around, looking for this mysterious man. Still, no one answers the call.
Dorothea leans in. “Looks like someone chickened out.”
“It looks like this bar needs a hero.” Manuela stands up. “One who is incredibly good looking, and with tits to match.” She pauses a moment, looking puzzled. “Did I say tits? I meant to say voice.”
“Both are true,” says Ingrid.
Manuela pets her head. “This is why you’re my favorite son.”
“Son?”
“The position for favorite daughter is taken.”
She struts onto the stage and takes the microphone with confidence.
“You’re Dimitri?” The DJ asks.
“I can be whoever I want to be, darling,” she spits back. “I was on Broadway.”
The man shrugs. “Alright. Have fun.”
The song plays. Ingrid instantly recognizes it, as does the crowd.
Yo, I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want
Dorothea leaps out of her seat, cheering loud enough for the entire bar to hear. “That’s my mom!”
The entire bar sings along as Manuela performs. A crowd coagulates at the base of the small stage. They jump up and down as they drunkenly dance along. Caught up in the energy, Ingrid finds herself bobbing along with them. Dorothea takes her hand and pulls her into a dance.
By the end of the song, Ingrid is drenched in sweat. She collapses onto her seat. Dorothea does the same. She gulps down the rest of her drink and starts eating the ice. Manuela remains on stage bowing to the crowd as they cheer for her. The DJ makes a witty statement, and finally, Manuela descends back down to the common folk. She returns to their table. Dorothea pulls her mother into a tight hug.
“That was amazing! Since when did you know the Spice Girls?”
“Since you decided they were your favorite artist when you were six,” says Manuela. “I should have figured out some things about you much sooner.”
Dorothea snorts. “Me too.”
Manuela downs the rest of her water. “I’m going to get more water. Would you like anything, dear?”
“Another tequila sunrise, please!”
“And another beer?”
“No.” Ingrid shakes her head. “Beer is gross.”
Manuela laughs. “Oh, dear. You don’t need to drink beer to look cool. You can enjoy a nice margarita like the rest of us.”
“I don’t know what a margarita is.”
“I’ll get you one. I’ll be back! Have fun while I’m gone.” She disappears into the crowd, leaving the pair alone. Ingrid feels unbelievably hot. Of all times, she needs alcohol now. Dorothea eyes her curiously.
“Are you having fun?” She wonders aloud.
“I’m, uh, very out of my element,” Ingrid answers honestly.
“Do you want to leave?”
“Not at all! I’m having fun. I’m just very confused. I like spending time with you.”
Dorothea puts a hand on her thigh. “Aw, you’re adorable. I like spending time with you, too.”
She leans in close so Ingrid can hear her. Her breath is warm against her skin. Ingrid stares forward, trying not to think about it. The man on stage struggling through Eminem’s Rap God is her only savior.
Then, Dorothea rests her head on Ingrid’s shoulder. The poor woman nearly faints on the spot. She freezes in place, willing for the torture to end soon. But part of her wants this moment to last. Ingrid quickly shakes that thought away, instead focusing on Eminem. The influx of bright lights and loud music make it easy to ignore certain thoughts.
“I brought drinks!” Manuela says. She sets the glasses down on the table, one for each of them.
Dorothea springs to life. “I am so thirsty!” As she goes to grab her drink, she notices her mother’s suspiciously shaped drink. “Why do you have alcohol? You promised!”
“A man at the bar bought it for me. He said he loved my performance. Don’t worry. It’s virgin. Unlike me.” Manuela bursts out laughing.
“And me,” her daughter adds in. Manuela raises her hand up, clapping it against Dorothea’s in a crisp high-five. Ingrid groans, questioning why she came along in the first place. She holds her head in her hands and sinks down into her seat.
She graciously takes her own drink, desperately needing a distraction from the chaos that is the mother-daughter duo. The glass is oddly shaped, with salt on the rim and a lime wedge on the side. Tentatively, she takes a sip. It’s oddly sour with a mix of sweetness to make it bearable. It reminds Ingrid of sour candy. Overall, it hardly tastes like alcohol. She likes it. She takes another sip.
“Oh, I wanna try that.” Dorothea steals the glass out of her hands and tastes it. Her eyebrows shoot up. “This is good.” She drinks more.
“Get your own,” Ingrid huffs. She pulls away only for her friend to lean in closer.
“Nah. It tastes better stolen.” One more long sip, and Dorothea is finally satisfied.
The group watches as another performer gets on stage. As they patiently await their turn, the music goes from Ghost, to Aretha Franklin, to Carly Rae Jepsen, and back again. Ingrid can hardly keep up. Her focus lies on Dorothea’s hand that has been steadily climbing up her thigh. She is incredibly close, and only finds more excuses to get closer. Manuela is willfully oblivious to the whole ordeal.
Eventually, she stands up. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she announces. “These drinks go right through me.”
Again, Ingrid and Dorothea are left alone in the crowded bar.
"You finished your drink already," Dorothea says.
’Gee, I wonder why,’ Ingrid wants to answer.
“Yeah,” is what Ingrid actually says.
"Want some of mine?" Dorothea pushes her drink toward her. It's incredibly pink, and has Ingrid curious as to its taste.
Tentatively, she takes it. She brings it to her lips. The ice clinks in the glass. The bitter taste of tequila floods her tongue followed by a sickeningly sweet syrup. The excessive sugar covers any taste of alcohol. It's perfect. Ingrid takes another sip.
"You should get one of those next time," Dorothea says. "But we can share this one for now."
So they do. They take turns drinking while watching people pour their souls out on the stage. Some have decent voices. Others have too much confidence and no voice to match. Alcohol does wonders to inhibitions. Ingrid wonders if she would go up there if she were to have enough to drink. Part of her wants to see what would happen. Her common sense refuses to find out.
"I like this place," Dorothea says. "We should come back here sometime. After your birthday of course." She pauses a second as if contemplating her words. "It could be a date."
Ingrid laughs. "Sure. As long as you don't make me sing."
"But I wanna hear you sing."
"Trust me. You don’t want to hear me sing. I am not a good singer."
"Neither are half the people on stage, but they still sing."
"They're drunk and confident. I am not."
"Well, I can change one of those things." Dorothea clinks her nails against her empty glass. "I'll get us more drinks."
As she stands up, a young man starts singing Queen's Somebody to Love. His voice is beautiful. The bar goes quiet to listen along.
Dorothea sits back down. "I can't miss this."
She wedges back into the seat next to Ingrid. Their thighs touch, and Ingrid feels slightly overwhelmed. Her cheeks flush with heat. She turns her focus to the stage.
As the man sings, Ingrid finds herself captivated by the words. She knows this song; Dorothea has sung it many times for her. An arm slips around her shoulders Ingrid jumps at the touch. Dorothea starts swaying to the music. She sings along, her voice heavenly. Ingrid puts her arm around her friend, joining in quietly.
The crowd erupts into applause. The performer takes a bow and skips off the stage.
"Now, I can get more drinks," Dorothea says, standing up. She dabs a tear from her eye, being careful to work around her flawless eyeliner.
“Get me water,” Ingrid says. “I need a break from the alcohol.”
“Will do.”
Ingrid is relieved to have water. Her body thanks her as she drinks most of it in one gulp. The ice gives her a brain freeze. Next to her, Dorothea enjoys another drink filled with fruit and practically glowing an unnaturally bright color. She drinks it through a tiny straw, only taking breaks to sing along with the music, or to whisper a humorous comment in Ingrid’s ear. Together, they enjoy the music with little conversation. Ingrid enjoys the break.
“I’ve never been this drunk before,” Dorothea says, bubbling with joy.
“Me neither,” Ingrid responds. She has not had nearly as much alcohol as her friend, but she still has never truly gotten drunk before. Even now, she feels particularly sober compared to the crowd. Especially as a woman sings all the wrong words to a country song on stage.
“You’re cute.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I just think you’re cute! Can I not say you’re cute? I can say ‘no homo’ if it would make you feel better.”
“It would.”
Dorothea frowns. “Fine. I am platonically calling you cute. Just like I would like to platonically kiss you on the lips.” A short pause. “I have a crush on you.”
“You have definitely had too much. I’m cutting you off.”
“You can’t do that! It’s my birthday!” She flops onto her friend and pouts. “How can you say no to this face?”
“You’re right. I can’t. But I also don’t want to have to hold your hair back while you puke into the toilet. I’m not saying I won’t. I just don’t want it to come to that.”
“How about I have one more drink, and then you can cut me off?”
“Deal.”
She plants a kiss on Ingrid’s cheek. “You’re the best. I love you.”
Ingrid’s blush flares up. “I love you too.”
They sit like that for a while, enjoying each other’s company in a drunken silence. As one song turns into another, one thing becomes apparent.
“Where’s Manuela?” Dorothea wonders.
The music fades out, and Pat Benatar's Hit Me With Your Best Shot starts playing over the speakers.
"We're spinning the wheel again tonight!" The DJ announces. "What's it gonna be?"
Ingrid perks up. Her eyes drift toward the bar where a giant wheel is mounted on the wall. It starts spinning. The pieces come together. She shakes Dorothea’s shoulder. “Dorothea, look.”
“Huh, what?” She sits up.
Ingrid points. “Manuela.”
"Where?"
Dorothea gasps, eyes wide. "She said she wouldn't-"
Her sentence goes unfinished as she storms toward the bar.
“Manuela,” she growls with fury. She balls her hands into fists, and for the first time, Ingrid knows what true fear feels like.
Manuela lounges at the bar with a martini glass in her hand. A small crowd surrounds her, all laughing and chatting with her. One hands her a shot. Another slides her a second drink as her martini empties.
“Oh, thank you, darling.” She plucks an olive and pops it into her mouth.
“Manuela!” Dorothea yells loud enough to garner her attention.
Her mother grins widely. “Dorothea! You’re just in time for shots! These wonderful individuals are buying this round.” She leans over the bar and calls out to the bartender, “Two more shots, please. It’s my daughter’s birthday.”
“You’re not supposed to be drinking! You’re our designated driver!” Dorothea reasons with her.
“Don’t worry! I’m being responsi-” Manuela’s eyes go wide. “Those pina coladas weren't virgins.”
“Mom, please.”
“I swear, I didn’t do this on purpose! I asked for a virgin, and it tasted like one.”
The bartender starts lining the shots along the bar. Everyone takes one besides Dorothea, Manuela, and Ingrid. They wait awkwardly.
The song ends, and the DJ announces over the speakers, “Will Manuela and Dorothea please come up to the stage?”
“We will continue this conversation later.” Dorothea grabs a shot and knocks it back. Manuela does the same.
She takes her daughter by the hand. “Let’s do this!”
Ingrid follows them back to the stage. Their table has since been taken by others, so she awkwardly waits by the wall. It gives her a good view, but she feels naked without a drink. Luckily, everyone’s eyes are on Manuela. The crowd goes wild as she ascends onto the stage once more. Dorothea stands next to her, microphone in hand. Ingrid has never seen her happier.
A guitar riff leads into a rockabilly beat. As Dorothea starts singing, Ingrid immediately recognizes the song.
Though it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night
I can see paradise by the dashboard light
Dorothea’s voice is extremely powerful, only trumped by Manuela’s. She carries the song for a while. Until it comes time for Manuela to sing.
“Oh, god,” she says worriedly. She tumbles backward. “The words are moving too fast. What do I do?”
“Sing!” Dorothea urges her. It does not work.
The song plays on without them, words scrolling over the screen. Manuela watches in pure horror. She sits down at the edge of the stage, discarding the microphone next to her. “I need a minute.”
Chaos breaks out. Dorothea is alone, singing both parts by herself. She does it beautifully, but this is a song meant for two people. She’s cornered into an eight minute song with no chance of escape. The crowd is watching with hope and horror. Ingrid watches in shock, not sure what to do. Her feet move without thinking. Before she knows it, she is on top of the stage. She bends down to take the stray microphone from Manuela’s hand. Manuela breaks down sobbing. Dorothea struggles through a duet as one person. Ingrid puts the microphone to her lips and sings:
Ain't no doubt about it
We were doubly blessed
'Cause we were barely seventeen
And we were barely dressed
Ingrid has no idea how she sounds. Her voice is nothing compared to Dorothea’s, but she has to do something to help her friend. Her heart pounds in her ears; she cannot hear anything.
And now our bodies are oh so close and tight
It never felt so good, it never felt so right
The theatrics of the song throw Ingrid through a loop. She has never felt more stressed in her entire life. Sweat pours from her body as she gives the most meager performance of Meat Loaf.
Dorothea carries the song along, slowly losing stamina as the song carries into its fifth minute. Drunkenness takes over, and she falls down onto the stage next to her mother. Manuela throws an arm around her, and together, they both cry.
Ingrid is left to sing alone on the stage with two crying women at her feet. The song is still going, at twice the pace it was before. Ingrid has to sing. Her hands shake; her legs are ready to collapse. Still, she presses on.
So now I'm praying for the end of time
To hurry up and arrive
'Cause if I gotta spend another minute with you
I don't think that I can really survive
I'll never break my promise or forget my vow
But God only knows what I can do right now
Finally, the song ends. A few people clap out of pity. Ingrid flies off the stage.
“Wow,” the DJ says. “I don’t mean this lightly, but please never sing karaoke here again.”
“I won’t!” Ingrid squeaks.
“Not you. Her.” He points to Manuela, who lies face down on the stage, her arms splayed everywhere.
The bouncer stands at the foot of the stage, waiting. As Manuela struggles to stand up, he steps forward.
“Oh, you’re quite the hunk,” Manuela says. She cups his breast.
“Ma’am, you need to leave,” he answers, unfazed by her groping.
Ingrid steps in. “I’ll take her home!”
With a woman on either side of her, Ingrid leads them out of the bar. She pays the tab and escapes into the night. The cool air comes as a relief. She shrugs Manuela off of her as they reach the car.
“Where’s the key?” Ingrid asks.
“In my purse! I’m still okay to drive,” Manuela slurs. She lies on top of the hood of the car. “After a quick nap.”
“Manuela, please cooperate with me- actually, I’ll get it myself.” Ingrid snags Manuela’s purse and digs her hand inside. She pushes past a knife, a concerning amount of condoms, and a travel-sized bottle of vodka. She frowns. “It’s not in here.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Your car key.”
“Oh! My car key! I keep that in my wallet.”
She fishes the wallet from the purse. As she goes to open it, Manuela slaps her hand away. “Not that wallet.” She cups her own breasts. “This wallet.”
“You keep your car keys in your bra?”
“It’s very spacious. Like a luxury apartment.”
“Can you just give me the key, please?” Ingrid begs.
“Fine, but only because I like you.” Manuela reaches into her cleavage and produces a key. Ingrid steals it before anything else can happen. Dorothea slumps into the front seat. Ingrid lies Manuela down in the back.
Finally, they can go home.
Ingrid climbs into the driver’s seat and takes a deep breath. The car hums to life, and they drive away.
Both women are fast asleep by the time they arrive at the Casagrande household. Ingrid pulls into the driveway and shuts the car off. Manuela snores loudly. She refuses to move as Ingrid gently shakes her shoulder. Dorothea weighs considerably less. Ingrid decides to start there. She carries her friend inside with a gentle hand supporting her back and her other arm hooked under the woman’s knees. Dorothea lets out a quiet hum and snuggles into Ingrid’s arm. It’s incredibly cute; Ingrid will let herself admit that. She stumbles up the front steps to find the door locked.
With her hands full, Ingrid cannot reach for her keys. She sets Dorothea on the ground, gently leaning her against the door. The lock clicks, and the door opens. Dorothea slumps over, falling onto the floor inside the house. Her eyes open slowly, then close again. Ingrid scoops her back into her arms and continues her journey.
Of course, Dorothea’s bedroom is upstairs. For a moment, Ingrid considers lying her on the couch and calling it a night. But Dorothea deserves better than that. Ingrid hobbles to the stairs with Dorothea tucked in her arms. By now, she is straining to carry her friend. Her knees start to wobble as she presses on. She slogs up the flight of stairs, each step is harder than the last. Finally, Ingrid makes it to the bedroom. She bumps the door open with Dorothea’s body and steps inside. They collapse onto the bed. Ingrid takes a moment to catch her breath. Dorothea lies next to her, mostly asleep.
“Tuck me in,” she murmurs.
“Seriously?” Ingrid responds.
“Yes, please.”
With a small huff, she climbs out of bed. Dorothea lazily crawls under the sheets. Ingrid pulls them up to the other’s chin. She turns to leave.
“What about my goodnight kiss?” Dorothea asks.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. I‘m the birthday girl.”
Ingrid sighs. She walks over, leans down, and kisses Dorothea on the cheek. “Goodnight, Dorothea.”
“Goodnight, Ingrid. I love you.” Dorothea snuggles into the blankets.
“I love you too.” Ingrid shuts the door gently behind her.
Now, for the hard part. Ingrid steps outside into the cold and back to the sleeping bear in the back seat. Manuela is spread about the back seat, arms and legs splayed in a position comfortable only to an octopus. A puddle of drool pools on the upholstery.
Ingrid has her work cut out for her.
She grabs the woman by the ankles and tugs her until she hangs half out of the car. Her body is limp, and Ingrid cannot comfortably grab her no matter how she tries. Eventually, Manuela tumbles out of the car. She snorts, making Ingrid jump.
“I can walk,” she mumbles. She grabs onto the seat for strength as she heaves herself up. Ingrid puts an arm around her to help balance her.
“Ugh, why am I still wearing these?” Manuela kicks her heels off. She tosses them in the back seat and shuts the door with her hips.
Together, they walk inside. Manuela is oddly quiet until they get into the bedroom. Ingrid waits awkwardly, not sure what to do. She turns to leave.
“Hey,” a voice stops her.
Ingrid turns back around. “Do you need something?”
“Nothing you can give me,” Manuela answers. “I just wanted to know when you’re going to ask my daughter out.”
“What?”
“Don’t play coy with me. I’ve seen enough longing glances to last a lifetime. Dorothea likes you back. She’s just scared you’re not into girls like her.”
“I, uh, I have no intention of asking your daughter out. I’m straight.”
“A shame. You would make a wonderful daughter-in-law.”
“I’m very flattered, and Dorothea is a wonderful girl,” Ingrid says. “If I were, um… into women… I would definitely ask her out.”
“Well, let me know if you ever change your mind. I care about you, kid. And I think you’re a good fit for my daughter, whether as a friend or a partner.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Good. Now, let me sleep.”
“Goodnight, Manuela.”
“Goodnight.” The woman buries herself underneath the blankets, still fully dressed in her glittery outfit. Ingrid quietly shuts the door behind her. Since Manuela is wholly drunk, she decides to disregard that entire conversation.
Too tired to go anywhere else, she stumbles into Dorothea’s bedroom and flops onto the bed next to her friend. Dorothea stirs at the sudden movement, but remains fast asleep. Her arm comes around to hug Ingrid. Ingrid lets the woman hold her and settles into the sheets.
Finally, she can sleep.