Looking to Lose (completed)

*12*

My head is pounding, my mouth is dry and the bags under my eyes make it appear as though I didn't sleep all night. Which is partially true. While my terrible date with Scott was depressing enough to cry myself to sleep over, Mila's messages woke me up and kept me up, riddling me with anxiety about my fast-approaching deadline.

I should feel happy for her, I know I should. This moment is all we've been talking about for the past two years, and now it's finally happened – well, for her anyways. But no matter how hard I try not to, the minute I remember that I am now utterly alone, clinging to a capsized two-man boat, I choke up and fresh tears spill over. So, I've avoided Mila like the plague. I have fourteen unread messages and seven missed calls, and it's only 11 AM. Each time my cell phone vibrates in my back pocket, my heart lurches and my stomach fills with guilt.

I shut my phone off as I enter Books & Co., greeted with a high-pitched squeal I can only credit to Hazel. I barely see her face as she races towards me, throwing herself on me as if we're long lost sisters; sometimes it feels like we are.

With long dark hair, a fair complexion and light eyes, we bear a familial resemblance which often has us questioning whether our parents were entirely faithful in their relationships. But seeing as though she lives over an hour away and only our moms are vaguely acquainted, we're pretty sure our resemblance is just happy coincidence. However, our physical likeness is where the similarity ends. Whereas I always dress as though I'm the starlet of a romcom, Hazel dresses like she doesn't own a mirror - come to think of it, she might not. Currently, she's drowning in one of her brother's soccer hoodies, below which a pair of loose-fitting purple sweatpants is complimented by puke-orange sneakers and green fuzzy socks. Simply put, she's a walking fashion catastrophe.

But her demeanor makes it clear she does not give two shits about her outfit, or what people think of her. Her eyes are always dancing like she knows a secret about you that you don't know yourself, and she has a perpetual smirk on her lips. I can count on one hand the amount of times I've had a serious conversation with her – not riddled with snarky comments and sarcasm – and I've known her since I was 9. Her favorite pastime is making people laugh with a witty humor that reveals just how intelligent she is, and I've never once seen her change any part of herself for anyone. Not even her best friend, no matter how many times I've asked her to put on clothes that match.

"I know you have an aversion to mirrors but really, are you color blind now too?" I ask pleadingly, motioning to her complete incoordination.

"Oh, I did this for you," she says, giving me a little spin and a courtesy. "You look like complete shit by the way," she says as she grabs the bag of bagels I brought along with me.

"Gee, no 'thanks for the bagels Isa,' 'thanks for keeping me company on your day off Isa,' or an 'I've missed you Isa?'" I pout as I follow her behind the bar, grabbing the bacon-egg-and-cheese on an everything bagel before she can steal it from me. I take a huge bite and sigh, grateful I can still derive some pleasure from this world.

"Lay it on me baby," she says, nudging my shoulder.

"I had a terrible date last night," I reply.

"Well, duh, it was a date." Hazel is a firm nonbeliever in relationships. She thinks they're needlessly complicated, completely overrated and not worth her time. She doesn't so much as blink when a boy passes her. Sure, she tapes hot GQ covers above her bed, but she claims that's the maximum male presence she can handle in her life.

I groan and lean over, so my head is resting on the bar.

"Cheer up buttercup," she says in a fake cheerful voice, "the sun will come out tomorrow!"