“Theresa! Where the hell are you? This isn’t funny, I swear—” I stop yelling as I take in the curled-up ball on the patio lounge chair. Approaching, I see that Tessa’s knees are tucked up to her stomach and her arms are wrapped around her chest, as if she fell asleep while trying to hold herself together.
Yeah. Exactly. She got drunk. She went to sleep.
