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The next morning, Carmine suffered the worst hangover of his life. His head pounded so hard his eyes pulsated. Wincing, he staggered out of the house into the sunshine, putting on his sunglasses as he climbed into his car.
The moment he pulled up in front of the house, a warm trickle streamed from his nose. Snatching down the visor, he looked in the mirror to see the blood. He pulled off his shirt and held it up to pinch his nose as he walked into the foyer, spotting his father holding a black duffel bag.
“Going away?” Carmine asked, heading for the stairs, but Vincent stepped in his path.
“To Chicago, yes.” He pulled Carmine’s hand away to survey his bloody nose. “If you keep snorting that stuff, you’re going to damage your septum.”
Carmine moved away. “How do you know I didn’t get punched?”
“Because if someone had punched you in the nose, you would’ve broken theirs.” Vincent started toward the door with his bag. “Lay off the coke. It’ll get you killed.”
* * *
Carmine fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow and was woken up by a knock on his door. He pulled himself out of bed, groaning, and swung it open to see Dominic. He thrust a bag at Carmine. “Your date’s here.”
Fuck. He’d already forgotten about the dance.
He showered, trying to wake up, and dressed in a black suit and black shoes before grabbing the bag. Pulling out the tie, he held it up and glared at it. It was shockingly pink. Fandango, my ass.
He slipped it on, knowing he didn’t have time to argue. After unlocking his bottom desk drawer, he filled a flask with vodka and slipped it into his pocket. He headed out, but paused in the library when Haven came up the stairs.
Carmine tried to think of something profound to say, something to make it all right again. “This tie makes me look fruity, doesn’t it?”
That isn’t it.
Haven burst into laughter. “Like the cake.”
He shook his head when she disappeared into her room. She didn’t even know what he meant.
. . . Or did she?
* * *
When they reached the school, Lisa ventured off with her friends while Carmine stood along the side, drinking heavily. They danced a bit, but by the time his flask was empty, he was drunk and ready to leave. Lisa smiled seductively, and the two of them went straight to her house. Her parents were out of town for the weekend, and Lisa hit up the liquor cabinet, handing him a bottle of Southern Comfort.
She took him to her bedroom, where he drank even more.
She kissed his neck and snatched the bottle away before pushing him down on the bed. He lay there and let her strip him, watching as she slipped off her dress. Climbing on the bed, she hovered over him and leaned in for a kiss.
Turning his head, he muttered, “I’m not that drunk.”
Her touch was uncomfortable, too intimate. She went too slowly, her hands gentle. Nothing felt right about it, her body wrong. Squeezing his eyes shut, feeling himself softening, Carmine wished he could enjoy it. He’d compromised and worn a pink tie, and now his body rejected a guaranteed lay. He didn’t recognize himself anymore. It was driving him nuts.
As soon as that thought ran through his mind, laughter erupted from him. Lisa moved away, startled. “What’s wrong with you, Carmine? You’re crazy!”
“I know.” He stood and grabbed his clothes. “Nutty like a fucking fruitcake.”
She stared with disbelief. “Wait, you’re leaving? Why?”
“I don’t love you,” he said as he headed for the door. “I’m never gonna love you, Lisa.”
* * *
Saint Mary’s Catholic Church looked like a medieval castle tucked into the heart of bustling Chicago, with its pointy towers and strong tan bricks. The grass surrounding it was withered, the sidewalk cracked, but the church was still immaculate. High arches and golden walls accented the wooden décor, the ivory marble floor sparkling from the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows. When Vincent was young, he felt like he had stepped inside a treasure chest. Every Sunday, without fail, Saint Mary’s made him believe he truly belonged.
Today, however, as he strolled through the vacant pews, he felt like an outcast in the place of worship. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the walls, alerting the priest to his arrival. He headed straight to the confessional and sat down as Father Alberto took a seat on the other side.
Vincent pushed the screen out of the way, knowing it was senseless to shield himself from the priest. He would know it was him—he always did. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three months since my last confession.”
