CHAPTER 3
YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT

THE PENTHOUSE WAS BIGGER than anything Sloane could've ever imagined. The hallway on the left contained the master bed and bath. The bedroom was expensive-looking with gold accents everywhere, a maroon-colored comforter on the California king bed, a massive closet, and even a sitting area. The bathroom was somehow crazier. Sabrina had a colossal-sized vanity, and then there were his and hers sinks, a shower, and a large tub with jets. Beside the master was Frank's office, which comprised of an enormous executive desk, two Apple monitors and a Macbook Pro, wall-to-wall bookcases filled to the brink with elitist literature and self-help books, and tons of Harper watches on display.

Sabrina led her daughter back to the living room, where she revealed that the floor-to-floor window was actually a screen door to their patio. The deck had a small hot tub with a few sun chairs, and the rest functioned as a small gardening space for Sabrina. They could see all of Manhattan just across the East River.

Down the right hallway was Everett's room, which was only a fraction smaller than the master bedroom. His bed frame raised his queen-sized mattress up high, and like his father, he had a tall bookcase full of books that looked like they'd never been touched. They could also be part of Frank's collection for all Sloane knew. There was also a large flatscreen mounted to the wall with multiple gaming systems attached to it. He had a mix of barely-clothed women and video game posters hung up on his wall. Once Sloane pointed it out, Sabrina covered her eyes and quickly shut the door, assuring her once again that Everett was "a good kid."

Past that was their laundry room, another large bathroom, and then way at the end of the corridor was the guest bedroom. "This is where you'll be staying," Sabrina announced, as if it were no big deal. This was a big deal. This room was probably the size of her entire studio apartment. It had a king bed with at least five pillows, decorated in a gorgeous plum-colored bedding set, a small vanity near the walk-in closet, and a long drawer that had a good-sized TV sitting on top of it. Various antique paintings were hung throughout the room, but there was a gigantic Jackson Pollock behind the bed frame. To the right of the bed was another floor-to-floor window, but it opened to a fire escape instead of a spacious patio.

"Hope this will be comfortable for you," Frank said, rolling her suitcase by the closet. "You know, some famous people have stayed in this room. I had that – oh, what's his name? The Wolverine guy. He stayed here once after getting too drunk at an event. Funny guy."

"Oh, yes, he was," Sabrina agreed, looping her arm through Frank's.

Sloane couldn't help but play with her hands. "The room is perfect," she replied, in awe. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," her mother answered with a bow of her head. "Now, are you having dinner with us? I have a Shepherd's pie in the oven and it should be done in an hour. I hope there will be enough. Oh, I really wish you would've let me know what time you were coming by, Sloane –"

Frank cut his wife off by lacing his arm around her shoulders. "Still cooks for the family, this one. I tried to hire some help, but she wouldn't let me. 'I can do everything myself, Frank,' she said." He chuckled and pecked her forehead. "You should stay for dinner. She makes a mean Shepherd's pie."

"I know," Sloane answered, sending him a fake smile.

Sabrina sent her daughter a knowing look, and Sloane's expression faded. "Um – yeah," she continued, "I'll be here for dinner."

"Excellent," Frank grinned before patting his wife's shoulder. "Brina, let's give your daughter some time to unpack before dinner."

Sabrina gave him a loving smile before looking at her daughter harshly. "Shout if you need anything, Sloane," she said, pointing a stern finger at her.

"Will do, Mom," Sloane retorted before the door was shut in her face.

Turning back to the bed, Sloane fell onto it face-first and just laid there until the comforter felt like it was suffocating her. She lifted her head and noticed that darkness was starting to shroud the sky, giving way to the stars. She could really go for some vodka right now, but her flask was empty. Maybe she should just stick to water for the rest of the night. Her stomach already felt like shit. Sloane groaned and stuffed her face against the covers again.

If she kept reminding herself that this was all for an award, would it go by faster?

━━━━━━

Instead of unpacking, like she should've been doing, Sloane called Bobby to inform him that she'd gotten to her mother's okay. As she laid on her back, head propped against the mountain of pillows on the bed, Bobby asked, "So what's her new place like?"

"Expensive," Sloane sighed, examining her cuticles. "Mr. Frank put them all in a penthouse at the Rosewell. I don't even want to know how much this costs a month."

"The Rosewell? In Long Island City?"

"That's the one."

She could hear keys clicking on the other end, and then Bobby said, "Yeah, you don't want to know how much it costs."

Sloane rubbed at her tired eyes. "Remind me why I'm here again?"

"You know why, Bernstein," he replied gruffly. "What's your plan?"

"Well, I was gonna start where most reporters would: the police station. See what they know."

"The police aren't doing shit, Sloane. That's why I sent you down there. So you can help out and write this big story. It'll change lives."

"I'm not a goddamn private investigator, Bobby," she scoffed. "There won't be a story unless I get a sliver of info from the police. They have to autopsy reports or ... I don't know. Some kind of file I can refer to."

"Are you drunk right now?"

"No," she answered quickly, "but I wish I was."

"Just focus on the article and keep me updated when you can, okay?"

She exhaled heavily and replied, "I will."

"See you later, kid." The call ended with a click.

She threw her phone across the bed and debated on suffocating herself with a pillow. But then her mother called her name for dinner, and Sloane thought that if she was gonna do it, it had to be now. With a tired groan, she got up from the bed instead and trudged her way to the massive dining table, where there was an empty seat for her across from Everett. Sabrina already had a piece of Shepherd's pie waiting for her. Sloane didn't hesitate to dig in. This was the first meal she had since this morning.

The table was silent besides Frank going on and on about work. Sabrina nodded along encouragingly, wanting to know more, but Sloane could tell she was just as bored. Everett kept to himself. Sloane could see him texting underneath the table as he ate, and she wondered if Frank just didn't care or was too engulfed in his story to notice.

After dinner, Sloane helped her mother clean the dishes out of respect, but it ended up turning into just Sloane cleaning and Sabrina finishing off the rest go her hundred-dollar wine. Sloane eyed the bottle begrudgingly, wanting to grab it right out of Sabrina's hands and finish it herself. But alas, she did have manners and continued scrubbing the porcelain dish.

Everyone in the family seemed to retire to bed for the night once dinner was over. Sloane expected to see her mother, Frank, maybe even Everett spend some quality time together, since this family was just so much better than the one she originally had. But once eight o'clock rolled around, Sabrina made both her and Frank some whiskey sours, said goodnight to Sloane and Everett, and grabbed her husband's hand before walking to their room. Everett immediately went to his own bedroom and shut the door. Sloane did the same and then realized the time. Despite her being tired, there was no fucking way she was going to sleep now. She wasn't middle-aged.

You know what she really wanted? Some alcohol.

Pulling on her puffer jacket, Sloane grabbed her purse out of her backpack and tiptoed out of the room. She closed the door, hoping that no one would come inside and notice she was gone, before walking carefully down the hall. The wooden floorboards creaked softly under her feet and she cringed. She passed by Everett's door and stopped.

It was slightly ajar. Sloane couldn't help her curiosity and looked through the crack, finding the room completely empty. His sheets were ruffled and the TV was playing an old rerun of Full House, but other than that, he wasn't there. Her brow furrowed. Where could he have gone?

She heard a noise echo down the hall, so she thought that this was as good of a time as ever to start running. Sloane sprinted through the corridor and then to the elevator, pushing the button several times. The doors opened and she sealed herself inside. She didn't get the chance to see who had been coming, Everett or her mother. It didn't matter anyway. All that mattered right now was the sweet, sweet victory of finally having a bottle of vodka in her hands.

Exiting the Rosewell was a piece of cake. And thankfully, Sloane only had to walk a block to get to the nearest liquor store. Her eyes had practically lit up just as bright as the neon sign advertising, Watson Liquors and More. She stuck her hands in her pockets and quickly ran across the street. The bell rang over her head, earning her a bored greeting from the NYU student sitting behind the counter. Sloane fast-walked towards the vodka section. She was pretty sure she heard a choir singing as soon as she noticed the Smirnoff on the shelf.

She stood on her tiptoes and grabbed it immediately. A moment later, her eyes dragged across the shelf and landed on the Grey Goose. Sloane hummed to herself and picked it off the shelf, looking between the two bottles in her hands. Smirnoff had always been her drink of choice, but since she was living with her mother for who knows how long, maybe she should treat herself to the Grey Goose?

It was in times like these that Sloane wondered how her drinking had gotten this bad. But then she remembered the pain she felt when she came home from school one afternoon and found her father dead on the kitchen floor. She remembered how it took her almost twenty minutes to call the police due to shock. She remembered how she couldn't go to school for two weeks because it physically hurt to get up out of bed. It was one of the most vivid memories she had.

Her mother tried to help. It was useless, and Sabrina was grieving too. But vodka? Vodka had been there for her. It allowed her to finally feel weightless and motivated and forget about the pain.

When she was fifteen, she had started to pay homeless men to go to the liquor store for her and buy her nips with her weekly allowance. After a while, it turned into a half-pint, then a pint, and finally, a standard-sized bottle. She liked to waste the day away as soon as she got home from school. If it hadn't been for her mother screaming at her, she would've never just narrowly passed her classes and gone to community college. The drinking only got worse in college, but at least the students she met taught her how to handle it better, how to hide it, and prevent a hangover. She was practically an expert in covering it up.

Sloane blinked, bringing herself out of her thoughts. She actually put the Smirnoff back on the shelf and decided to treat herself. Although she hardly had the money for it, Sloane thought she deserved it. She turned, bottle in hand, and almost body slammed into a large figure walking into the aisle. The Grey Goose almost slipped from her fingers, but Sloane was more protective of the vodka than her actual body. She made sure it didn't hit the ground. She, however, nearly collided with the floor if the person in front of her hadn't grabbed her arm and yanked her upright.

"Oh, god, thank you," she said, refusing to meet the person's eyes. She couldn't help the embarrassed flush that rose to her pale face.

"Sloane?"

Her head tilted up automatically, meeting a familiar pair of blue eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words formed. The last thing she expected, or wanted, was to see someone from high school when she was at her weakest.

Flash Thompson grinned wide, pointing a finger at her. "Sloane Bernstein, right? We went to Midtown together!"

"Yes," she laughed awkwardly, running a hand through her unwashed hair. "Hi, Flash."

"It's great to see you!" He brought her in for a quick, uncomfortable hug. Sloane didn't remember much about Flash. To be fair, she didn't remember much of high school. She was either drunk or dealing with a hangover the entire time. But she remembered Flash dating her best friend and top dog in school, Julia Winthrop. She remembered him playing football, and at every game, he would run to the sidelines where she and Julia were cheerleading and plant a huge kiss on her friend's lips.

Besides that, Flash Thompson was basically a stranger.

He leaned back and slapped a gloved hand against his hip. The other held a large bottle of Evian water. "What are you doing here? Didn't you move out right after high school?"

"Yeah, I –uh – needed to get out of the city. I went to a community college in Vermont and got my Associate's, and then I just never left." It felt strange to divulge this information to Flash. She wasn't telling him anything you couldn't find on her abandoned Facebook profile, but she didn't even know him too well in high school. He was always just there, and he'd always be just there. Which is funny, because Sloane tended to feel that way her entire life.

"Vermont, Vermont ... oh, yeah," he nodded along. "I've gone back and forth since high school. I went to college here, but then I joined the Army and was stationed for a few years. When I came back, I kinda spiraled, and a bunch of things happened that I won't go into. It was shitty. But through that, I met my wife and we have two kids. I even work at Midtown now as a gym teacher and coach for the football team."

Sloane felt frozen. How had a complete imbecile like Flash accomplish so much in the eight years since high school and she had done so little? She liked to think she was a successful and hard-working writer, but compared to fucking Flash Thompson, she looked like the imbecile now.

"Wow, that's ... that's amazing," she replied with astonishment.

"Yeah ..." His voice trailed off and he adjusted his grip on the tall water bottle. He rubbed the back of his head, ruffling his blonde hair. "Hey, Sloane, don't take this the wrong way, but if I were you, I'd put that vodka back on the shelf. I was an alcoholic for the longest time after I served, and the constant drinking made me look awful. Like, it added ten years to my face."

Sloane blinked incredulously.

"Not saying you look terrible, but ..." You look like shit. He might as well just finish the sentence.

"Anyway," he continued, "you do you. I just came in for a water and some gum. But hey, it was great seeing you! I should get in touch with Julia and us three can grab dinner while you're here." He walked towards the cashier and waved goodbye. "See 'ya, Sloane!"

She stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, and dragged a hand down her face. Did she look like she was in her thirties rather than twenty-six? That had to be a lie. Besides her smile lines and constant dark circles — oh, and the scar on her forehead that she got when she fell from a cheerleading pyramid while tipsy, Sloane looked her age. Flash didn't know shit, as usual.

Sloane looked back up at the shelf and grabbed a second bottle of Smirnoff. For that comment, she was really going to treat herself.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: sloane is def on the struggle bus and wants NOTHINGGGG to do with flash thompson 🙅‍♀️ despite that, this chapter was so much fun to write and you'll be happy to know that a certain bug boy will be showing up in the next chapter FINALLY 😋😋