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I’ve barely even made it two weeks without one. They’ve become something of a comfort when things start to derail, a way to dull the unnecessary noise. I first used them three years ago, to drown out the media circus and the world, eating up the stories about me spoonful by tabloid spoonful. I didn’t want to, especiallygiven what had happened, but the doctor assured me that, if used responsibly, they would help. And they did.
I thought that would be the last time I would need them, but I was wrong. Three weeks ago, I found myself picking up the familiar box from the Kumvit pharmacy that sells prescription meds by the truckload, catering to all the partying backpackers. That time, I needed it to forget what I had seen, to help me believe that my life was still on track.
But last night was stupid. I knew better than to mix drinking and Xanax. And I’m paying for it now. I try to remember the Full Moon Party, but everything after Frangipani is hazed by a cloud of alcohol and pills. I struggle to piece together what happened on the beach or how I got home. But only a few scenes come back to me, like damaged strips of a film reel: jagged pieces that don’t seem to form a whole. The feel of sand on my toes; the heat of flames being twirled by fire dancers standing way too close, teasing my flesh; the sight of neon bodies mashed against each other, limbs splayed, desperate for contact; the weight of something heavy in my pocket as I walked in the front door of our house; and a woman’s voice. It hits me with the weight of a fist. Not exactly shouting but talking firmly. “No.” It comes again: “No, no, no!”
Was it me making that sound? Or someone else? Brooke? Greta?
I shake my head again, glad to find that this time, it feels an ounce less painful.
I walk into the bedroom, pull on my one-piece swimsuit, and throw my hair into a messy bun, another question gnawing at me all the while. What did I have in my pocket last night?
I grab my shorts, discarded on the floor, and quickly check thepockets, but they are all empty. I then conduct a quick visual sweep of the surfaces of our bedroom, but I don’t see anything unusual. I slide the ring from my finger and place it in its designated red box before hovering over the drawer, the Xanax box clutched in my hand. After a moment, I shut the drawer and shove the Xanax into my bag.
I stand at the side of the bed and look down at Logan. He’s still fast asleep, his chestnut curls framing his face angelically, his tattooed arms stretched out onto my side of the bed, as if he’s reaching for me. Suddenly I’m struck with a need to wake him, to tell him everything, to feel his arms around me. But I can’t. Because that would mean explaining that I’ve lied to him about who and what I am for years. And he would never forgive me for that.
Instead, I stand there for a few minutes, listening to Logan’s consistent deep breaths. Eventually, I bend down to delicately kiss his cheek. His eyes flutter but he doesn’t wake.
“Ah, mate, please tell me you brought some Berocca with you.”
Doug is flopped over the desk in the dive shop, wearing the same outfit from last night. I try to ignore the shame filling my stomach. He seems to be acting normal—hungover Doug is certainly not a unique occurrence—so I must not have done or said anything too awful last night, I assure myself, only half believing it.
“Whew, good thing we don’t have an open flame in here,” I joke, waving my hand in front of my nose. “The alcohol fumes coming off you could explode the whole island. No Berocca, unfortunately, but I do have this.” I toss him a Powerade I picked up on my way in. He looks like he could use it more than me.
As Doug chugs the drink, I busy myself with preparing the tanks and the BCD vests to bring out to the students. I’m checking the sizes when the bell over the door chimes. Neil drags himself in, not bothering to remove his sunglasses once he’s inside.
“I’m guessing you’re not feeling so hot either,” I say. His eyes are downcast, and his quiet entrance departs drastically from his usual arrival in the shop, haloed by a cloud of energy, cracking jokes before he even says hello.
“Definitely not,” he says flatly, and I don’t dare to push it. My “hangxiety” returns with full force.
He joins me, pulling BCD vests from behind the tanks. While he doesn’t have a dive group to supervise today, he’s on the schedule to help me—an extra set of hands to prep and clean up and drive the boat.
I briefly wonder how the rest of the Permanents are pulling through today. Whether Greta and Brooke are as hungover as we are.
“Oh, by the way, you better do the Turtle Cove dive first and the shore dive in the afternoon,” Doug warns.
I jerk my head toward him, instantly regretting the sharp movement as a wave of pain hits my temple. “Why?”
Doug’s eyes flick to Neil, who seems less than concerned, barely even looking up. We always start with the shore dive and save Turtle Cove for the afternoon, after the students have worked through the exercises on their first dive. They tend to like the boat ride, plus there’s more coral out there and by extension more wildlife. It’s like a reward for the guests for finishing the course.
“The visibility is pretty bad on the coast right now, but it’s supposed to get better as the day goes on,” Doug explains. “Out by the cove, though, it seems to be fine, according to the tracker.”
“Got it,” I say, but I groan internally. I understand why we need to shift, but the last thing I need this morning is to deviate from routine. I check my watch and notice it’s five minutes to eight. “Well,” I say to Neil, “may as well get this over with.”
As soon as we step back outside, the sun bites my skin. Ariel and Tamar are already here, waiting patiently. Ariel stares at me dead on, his eyes clear and unreadable, as if nothing out of the ordinary happened yesterday. Tamar, on the other hand, seems embarrassed, and she gives me a small smile before fixing her eyes on the ocean. I try to forget that strange interaction with Ariel, wish them both a good morning, and proceed to stand awkwardly in front of them, unsure what more to say as Neil busies himself getting the boat in order.
“Oi, wait!” Daniel runs to us from the hill leading up to the resort. “Sorry I’m late. Wild night,” he says, hands on his knees, panting.
“Good morning.” I take him in: he’s already drenched in sweat, despite the early-morning hour, and looking a bit worse for wear. A slice of panic hits me as I realize that he may have seen me at the Full Moon Party, doing God knows what. The broken scenes of last night’s memories come back to me again. The lights, the sand, that woman’s voice, her firm “No, no, no!” I swallow hard, forcing my tone to remain normal. “I’m guessing you didn’t follow my advice against drinking last night?”
“Come on,” he says. “We’re in Thailand! I couldn’t pass up a Full Moon Party. Besides, it’s going to take more than a hangover to beat me.” Daniel frowns slightly as he apparently takes us in for the first time. “Where’s Lucy?” he asks.
All four of us look around, expecting to see her walking down the hill from the guest rooms or wandering somewhere farther along the beach. But we all come up empty.
I check my watch. It’s five past eight. Frederic has ingrained the schedule into us. We don’t wait for anyone. If a guest is late, they need to come back and pay for an extra day at the end of their course. And despite Doug’s easygoingness in all other aspects of life, he doesn’t deviate from Frederic’s rules. In fact, his hangover is likely the only thing that has prevented him from coming out and enforcing Frederic’s mandate already.
“Have you heard from her, Daniel?” I ask.
“Nah, not since last night. She partied with us on the beach for a bit. Couldn’t stay away and all that.”
