I attempt to set down the now-empty bottle, but it tips over, rolling across the deck and clanking against the posts. Guess that means it’s time for bed. When I push myself up, though, my knees go rubbery. I collapse backward. The balcony spins like someone droppedme onto the Scrambler at the county fair; my stomach lurches as the woods fade, then shift back into focus.
Maybe I could stay out here tonight. The weather’s nice enough. Something trickles down my chin, and when I go to rub it away, I realize it’s drool. I imagine waking up to find all the club members looming over me, assessing my spit-slicked skin, my T-shirt rucked up to my bra line, shaking their heads in disgust. Looks like what they’re saying online is true: Nicola Fischer is nothing more than a useless drunk, chasing her loneliness and guilt to the bottom of a bottle.
I grab ahold of the railing and drag myself to my feet. It’s too high for me to tumble over, and I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing that keeps me from splattering onto the ground below. The floor pitches and rocks under my feet, and as I stumble into the hallway, I press my palm against the wall to help keep my balance.
My door’s cracked open, a thin line of light cutting across the hallway. It blurs and sharpens, a trembling guitar string recently plucked. I elbow my way through, ready to fall into bed and not wake up until tomorrow afternoon.
Someone’s standing next to the bed.
Their face warps. I squint as hard as I can, but the more I try to focus, the more everything breaks apart. “A head,” Picasso once said, “is a matter of eyes, nose, mouth, which can be distributed in any way you like.” Their features (eyes, nose, mouth) swim across my vision, each one settling and resettling in a place that’s not right.
“What,” I start, my tongue swollen in my mouth, “are you…?”
The desk’s breaking apart, the walls, the floor, and I’m breaking apart, too. My mind smudges, paint smeared across the canvas, over and over again, until everything goes blank.
15NICOLA
SOMEONE’S POUNDINGon my door.
Or maybe it’s the pounding in my head. It’s hard to tell right now. My mouth feels like it’s been packed with cotton batting. A thick thrush-like film coats my tongue, and mucus has crusted into the corners of my eyes. I roll over and grope around on the bedside table for my phone, only to remember it’s not there.
“C’mon, Nic,” a voice calls from outside. Greer. “Breakfast’s on the table.”
I groan, force myself out of bed. I’m used to getting blackout drunk; I’m not, however, used to a—I check the clock on the wall—seven o’clock wake-up call. I try to remember the days when I was out the door before sunrise, backpack slung over my shoulder, stuffed with lesson plans and graded assignments. How quickly the body forgets; right now, mine feels like it’s about to crumple, leaving me to drag my way across the carpet.
Greer tries again. “You in there? Or have you been macheted to death somewhere in the woods?”
“Kind of feels like it,” I shout back. My sketchbooks lie scattered across the floor. I must’ve accidentally knocked everything off thedesk before passing out. I start stacking them back into a neat pile. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
As her footsteps trample down the stairs, my fingers land on a paper that’s come loose: the portrait I sketched last night of not-Claire—the one I could’ve sworn I’d thrown in the garbage. My eyes dart to the trash can, as if it’s somehow double-crossed me in coughing this back up. Must’ve knocked that over, too; straightened it up but neglected to throw the papers back in.
Not-Claire smiles up at me. That slip of paper, burned during the bonfire ceremony, was supposed to purge her memory from this retreat, and yet here she is, back to haunt me. I’m about to discard it, once and for all, when I notice a dull, reddish stain in the bottom corner. What’s that? Not a wine stain, surely. The Moscato’s white. I rub my thumb across it. Dry. Whatever it is had to have spilled a while ago.
I check my hands, my forearms. I didn’t cut myself, did I?
Laughter floats up the staircase.
I leave the sketch on the desk.
Breakfast, as promised, is waiting, family style, on the farmhouse table. I search the kitchen for Zach, but he must still be asleep.
“Hey!”
I turn to find Greer beckoning me to the end of the table. She has enough pancakes heaped on her plate to cause a coronary. I take the seat across from her.
“You’re looking rough,” she says.
She should talk. Dark circles rim her eyes. Maybe last night’s argument with Steffani affected her more than she’s letting on.
“I may have overdone it a little.”
She pushes her plate across the table so it’s in front of me. “Carbs and fluids.” She pours me some water, ice clinking against the plasticcup. “And—” She reaches into her pocket and removes a bottle of ibuprofen. “For the headache.”
“Do you always come stocked with Advil?”
“You’re not the first club member to show up with a hangover. Look, we have a fun-filled day packed with activities, so drink up.” I gratefully swallow two tablets and gulp down the water, while Greer fixes a new plate for herself. The others are sawing into their pancakes, the grind of utensils against porcelain making my temples throb. Getting drunk last night was a dumb decision. There are less than forty-eight hours until my return flight. My gaze drifts to the windows, and it’s almost like I can see Oliante in the distance, hazy and menacing. I don’t want anything to stop me from enjoying this short reprieve.
“Hey.”
