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Did I get so drunk that I can’t even remember how I got home?
Is this what a hangover feels like?
Question after question pops into my head, but I can’t definitively answer a single one.
Certainly if I had so much to drink that I blacked out, I would at least remember drinking more than two beers, wouldn’t I? Then again, my experience with alcohol is pretty limited, so how would I really know.
A light knock sounds against my bedroom door, and I groan again. The last person I need to see right now is my mother.
I force myself into an upright position, propping my back against the headboard of my bed, trying to tame my hair as I do my best to sound as normal as possible.
“Yeah?” I finally answer, the words dragging across my throat like sandpaper.
The door tentatively swings open and Oliver appears in the doorway. He has a glass of juice in one hand and a plate with a muffin on it in the other.
What the hell?
“Can I come in?” he asks, holding up what appears to be his attempt at a peace offering. Given everything, I hate to tell him it’s way too little, way too late.
“I’m really not feeling well, Oliver,” I admit, too weak and out if it to attempt to give him the attitude I normally would.
“I figured as much. That’s why I brought you these.” He enters my room anyway, kicking the door closed behind him before making his way to the side of my bed. He sets the muffin on my bedside table before turning to face me. “I was wondering when you’d wake up. After last night, I was worried about you.”
“I’m sorry, but did I miss something? Since when do you worry about me? Last time I checked, you hate me.” I quirk a brow. Despite my irritation and confusion, I take the glass of juice when he extends it to me.
Lifting it to my lips, I drink half the contents in one long gulp. The cold liquid feels incredible on my dry throat.
“I don’t hate you,” he starts, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
“Yeah, okay.” I snort, setting the glass on my nightstand next to the muffin.
“I need to talk to you about what happened last night.” He ignores my comment as he turns and grabs the accent chair that sits in the corner of my room. He pulls it over next to the bed before taking a seat.
“What do you mean? What happened last night?”
The confusion on my face must answer at least one question that he has, because he nods like he understands.
“That’s what I thought.”
“What’s what you thought? What the hell is going on, Oliver?”
“Can you tell me what you remember from the party?” He leans back, crossing one leg over the other.
“Not much, truthfully,” I admit. “I remember getting there. I remember being with Pierce. I remember having a couple beers. I remember at one point I left to go to the bathroom. Everything gets a little fuzzy after that.”
“Fuzzy how?”
“Fuzzy as in I have no idea what happened. I left to go to the bathroom and then woke up here.” I gesture around the room. “But I’m guessing by the way you’re looking at me, you’re not surprised by this information. What’s going on, Oliver?”
As much as I can’t stand my stepbrother, right now he seems to be the only one who may have the answers to the questions I woke up asking myself.
“This isn’t going to be easy to hear.” He gives me an apologetic look.
“Just say it,” I insist when he pauses way too long for my liking.
“We think you were drugged.”
My stomach knots so tightly I have to lean forward in an attempt to quell the sudden uneasiness I feel.
