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His father stormed away, grabbing Haven’s wrist and yanking her in front of him. Tears streamed down her cheeks as they disappeared into the crowd, and Carmine’s gut twisted.
He’d fucked up. Again.
* * *
Homecoming the year before had been significantly different. Only a sophomore at the time, Carmine was just a spectator at the varsity football game. He’d sat in the bleachers, surrounded by his classmates, with his best friend—Nicholas Barlow—at his side.
Best friend. The words felt venomous to Carmine now.
While the circumstances had changed this year, Carmine had every intention of ending the night in precisely the same way: fucked up beyond belief. Only this time, he was alone.
People packed the after-party when Carmine arrived, dozens of bodies crammed in the small house. He slipped through the crowd, grabbing some vodka from the kitchen before heading down the hallway. The den was dark except for a small, dim lamp in the corner, the stereo playing mellow rock music.
Everyone looked up when he entered, and a boy named Max nodded in greeting.
“You got any blow?” Carmine asked him, sitting down on the couch. With the week he’d had, he needed a major lift.
Max left the room, returning a few minutes later with a small baggie of cocaine. Carmine poured some of the powder out onto the table in front of them, enough for two lines. He snorted one straightaway, his nose numbing as his heart raced. After inhaling the second line, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch. Euphoria coursed through his body, warmth starting in his chest and radiating out through his limbs. He felt lightweight, invincible, without a care in the world.
A little while later, Lisa plopped down on his lap. Carmine’s euphoria took an instant hit. “If you’re gonna sit on me, you ought to at least get naked first.”
Pushing her aside, he made two more lines and snorted them, desperate for the sensation back. Wiping his congested nose, he dumped the rest of the power onto the table and offered it to Lisa. She inhaled it like a vacuum.
“I got you a tie,” she said, leaning back on the couch beside him. “It matches my dress.”
“A tie?”
“Yeah, for the dance.”
The dance. Carmine didn’t even remember asking her to go with him. “What color is it?”
“Fandango.”
He glanced at her. “What the hell is fandango?”
“It’s kind of like fuchsia but darker.”
“So, what, purple or something?”
“Yeah, purple.”
He shrugged as he looked away. He didn’t care as long as it wasn’t pink.
The night was a haze of alcohol and drugs, like a movie in fast-forward that he couldn’t slow down. He drank, he smoked, and he snorted, and then he popped a few pills before doing it all over again. The cycle continued, round and round, until he finally passed out where he lay.
* * *
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.”
