Recklessly Impressive Pt. I- A Short Story

She called me up crying at approximately three in the morning that Saturday.

My boyfriend Mark groaned when my iPhone began to ring. “Is that your f*cking alarm?” he grumbled, referring to the timer I always set to wake the two of us up for work during the week. “It’s Saturday, why is that going off?”

“No, it’s not my alarm, ” I snapped, crankier from my sleep having been compromised than from his words.  I never took them personally. I knew that he loved me; he was just extremely impatient at times. “Sh*t,” I said,  as my best friend’s name and picture played on my caller ID screen. “It’s Selena.”

I stepped outside of our bedroom and  into the hallway with the flashlight setting enabled on my iPhone. Why is she calling me so early, I thought to myself, annoyed. Something better be seriously wrong for her to be hitting up my phone right now. I paused and felt guilty for only a few seconds before sliding the phone to “answer”.

“Hello…” I mumbled, practically delirious from my sleep disturbed stupor.

“I need you right now,” I could hear her gravelly, cigarette-y voice, slightly muffled by the sound of her crying hysterically.

“Selena,” I said, trying to sound stern. With her, I had to be. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Are you sick? Is something wrong with the baby?” I instantly thought of her beautiful ten and a half month old, my god son, Stephan. My heart began to pound hard in my chest, like the beat of a drum played by a musician with plenty of anxiety and no rhythm whatsoever.

“No,” she sobbed. “It’s me, Jade. It’s me.”

“What’s going on?!”  I repeated, almost yelling.

“I just feel so guilty, I can’t sleep,” was her response, so full of tears I could just about understand it.

“Guilty?” I repeated.  I could feel my stomach churning, full of  little fluttering butterflies. “Why do you feel guilty? You mean you’ve done something wrong?”

“Yes,” she gasped, choking on her words. “Please come over. I’ll tell you everything- I need to talk to you so bad, please.”

“What have you done?” I demanded. “Calm down right now, and tell me what is going on. You’re scaring the sh*t out of me, you know that?”

“Just come over, please. I can’t sleep, I need you to come and be with me.” I could hear the desperation in my best friend’s voice. I hadn’t heard her sound this way since the night/ early morning she found out that she was pregnant with Stephan. She had called me around the same time that day.That’s when it dawned on me-

“Wait…you’re not pregnant again,are you?” I blurted out.

“No , I’m not f*cking pregnant,” She practically barked-cried at me. “Would you please stop asking me offensive questions and just come here? I need to talk to you. I already told you, I need you to come and be with me. Please just get here.” The call ended suddenly.

“Your calling me at this ungodly hour is more offensive than my questions,” I muttered to myself. I walked back into the bedroom so that I could get dressed.

“What was that all about?” Mark wanted to know. He was sitting up in bed with his arms crossed. Just as I expected, he wasn’t annoyed anymore; he looked more amused, like an innocent civilian watching a train wreck about to happen.

“Something’s wrong with Selena,” I told him, quickly throwing on my black Charlotte Russe sweatpants with holes and splatters of kelly green paint from the time we  painted our bathroom together.  I had gone to bed half dressed, sporting a royal blue t-shirt that cleverly read F*ck You, You F*cking F*ck.  “She says she needs me to come be with her.”

“Don’t even tell me her ass is pregnant again,” He snorted, rolling his eyes.

“She said she’s not,” I replied. I hovered over him for a kiss, which he promptly planted on my lips.

“Good luck with that one,” he said, and kissed me again. “I love you.”

“Thanks, I’ll need it. Love you too,” I replied.

See, I told you he was nice.

I collected my purse, my cell phone, and my car keys and headed out the door to my black 2013 Honda Accord that I had purchased on Craigslist just six months prior. I turned the key in the ignition, shifted the gears, and embarked on the eight to ten minute journey to Selena’s apartment. I was going a solid twenty to twenty five miles over the speed limit to try and cut my time in half. As much as I loved my best friend,  I felt myself resenting her mildly for leaving me in suspense. Here I was, at 3 am on a Saturday morning, practically sleep-speeding to go and see her without a damn clue as to why.

“I hate this girl right now,” I said out loud, to no one in particular. “I love her. But God, I f*cking hate her.”



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