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First my boyfriend treating me like I am second to his career, and now I’m second to my best friend’s boyfriend. What’s next?I ask myself while approaching the café, a line already forming and winding its way outside. I pause mid-step as I see Lauren standing at the end of the line. I inwardly groan, my gaze moving up to the sky.You must really hate me, now, don’t you?I ask the clouds.
I’m about to turn around when Lauren’s gaze slips toward me. She stills like a doe caught in headlights and her lips slightly part. She bites her bottom lip, wincing before looking away from me. I wonder if she’ll acknowledge when she finally says softly, “Hey.”
Well, I guess we are doing this, I think while making my way behind her in line. I definitely need a coffee. Today has already sucked and it’s not even nine in the morning. I don’t even know if a coffee can save the day. Maybe I skip my next class and stay here and talk to Lucas. That actually sounds much better.
“Are you okay?” Lauren asks while stepping forward, the line moving slowly.
“Why?”
Lauren’s head tilts. “Your eyes are red.”
My eyes widen and I brush a stray strand of hair away from my forehead. “O-oh.”
“I don’t mean to pry,” Lauren says quickly. “You just look like you haven’t had a great morning.”
“Well, that’s definitely an understatement.”
“D-do you want to talk about it?”
My eyes narrow on her and I shake my head. She shrivels under my gaze. I know I’m being a little mean. She was indeed nice enough to ask me about my crappy morning, but I still can’t trust her. Too much has transpired between us and part of me thinks the only reason why she wants to make amends with me is because she doesn’t have any friends.
“You meeting Charlie here?” she asks while moving forward.
I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling, but curses, my eyes fill up with tears despite trying to control my breathing. “No,” I croak.
“O-oh.”
I hate the way she says “oh” as if it’s a bad thing, as if she pities me. Yes, I feel lonely. Yes, I hate that Charlie has essentially dumped me for someone with a penis, but I am not pitiful. I still have Alex and Seth and Lucas. They care about me, even though they are busy with their own lives.
“You know, I’m still sorry,” Lauren whispers, “about everything. I hope you know my apology is genuine. I would like to start over if that’s—”
“Lauren,” I grind out, “I have had quite a shitty morning. Honestly, I would like to spend the rest of our time together in this fucking line in silence if that’s okay with you.”
Lauren’s head bobs up and down, and she spins around. Thankfully, we do indeed spend the rest of the line in silence. And we walk together to class with our coffees in silence. And yes, it is absolutely awkward, but I don’t care. My phone buzzes in my purse, but I refuse to have a look at it, deciding I don’t fucking care if it’s Charlie or Hunter. They can wait on me for a change.
Chapter 14
HUNTER
“Whatthefuckwasthat, Smith?” Coach shouts at me, his hands up in the air as if he wants to fly away from this game, from the stands filled with fans, from me and the fact I can’t throw a fucking ball.
It’s an away game. We’re in Gillette Stadium in Foxborough, Massachusetts, playing the Patriots. I’m so hungover. Or am I drunk? I can’t tell anymore. My hands won’t stop trembling. I can barely run without swallowing down my own vomit. My stomach keeps twisting around itself and my skin feels like it’s going to crawl away at any moment. Why did I drink last night?
No.
That’s not the right question.
Why can’t I stop drinking?
Ever since Adrien’s party, ever since that first beer, I’ve been drowning myself in vodka and rum. Bottles and bottles of the stuff clutter my apartment. Every day, while standing in the shower, I tell myself it will be different. I won’t go to the liquor store. I will go to training, focus on practice, and at night I will call Rachel, Dr. Forrester, anyone.
That’s how it starts, but as soon as I leave my bathroom and walk into the kitchen, I pour myself a couple shots of vodka, downing them quickly, like they’re vitamin pills, enjoying the feel of them dulling the throbbing pain in my head and the ache in my stomach. During practice and training, I feel the itch gnawing at my insides, telling me the moment I get home, I can have a drink. I need a drink. I try to push it away. I try to tell myself to call someone, get the help I need, but as soon as I get home I find myself at the refrigerator, or at the liquor store, wanting the bottle more than wanting to admit that I need help.
“Did you just move here?” Logan, the cash register, once asked me about a week ago. We’re on first name basis, given I’m there nearly every day.
“Yeah,” I remembered lying to him.
“You sure do have a lot of parties.”
