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Besides, how bad could a shot be compared to last night’s magic punch?
I took the shot from Cole, and we all cheered and tossed it back. “Oh my gosh!” I cried out. Worse. It could be much, much worse than the magic punch.
Harper snickered and patted me on the back. “Let me make you an actual drink. One that won’t make you want to throw up. Trust me. This is coming from a girl who hates the taste of alcohol.”
In Harper, I trust.
She mixed me a drink, which was a real magical punch because I couldn’t tell there was a drop of alcohol in it.
I drank those mixed drinks like a sailor. We blasted music all day, dancing in the parlor with full freedom. I didn’t know I could drink so much until I drank too much. The next thing I knew, it was Saturday evening and I was hugging my father’s toilet while he held my hair back for me.
“I feel like death,” I said after throwing up for the third time.
The hangover I thought I’d missed Saturday morning? It was kind enough to catch up with me Saturday night.
Dad snickered. “I remember my first ever hangover. I was fourteen and threw up in my dad’s favorite pair of shoes.”
“Fourteen?!” I gasped.
“Not everyone was a good kid like you, princess. Some of us made bad choices day in and day out.”
“I’m never drinking again,” I groaned as I sat back and leaned against the tub.
Dad sat beside me, and I laid my head on his shoulder. “That’s what everyone says when they get sick from drinking. Then what do you know? Another night to forget happens, and the cycle replays.”
“Not me,” I swore. “I’m done.”
He kissed my forehead. “You take a shower and put on some pajamas. You smell like ass. I’m going to make you some popcorn to help settle your stomach. You haven’t eaten enough today.” He pushed himself up to a standing position. “How about some Taco Bell? It makes all hangovers a little better.”
CHAPTER 4
Milo
My house was full of laughter and light when my mom was around. I’d wake up every morning with her dancing around the kitchen while music blasted as she made me breakfast before school. It was never a simple kind of breakfast, either. She’d always go above and beyond, making freshly baked muffins along with a frittata or some bullshit.
She’d make the biggest pot of coffee, drink just about all of it, and then try to engage me in her dancing, too. I never did, seeing how I was the opposite of a morning person. I got that trait from my father.
I never realized how much I took that for granted until those days disappeared. I hated that it wasn’t a quick fade, either. When she got sick, the music never played as loudly as before. Then the dancing slowed. She couldn’t make the fancy breakfasts, either. I knew it was hard for her, so I’d sometimes cook for her. I’d put on the music when she’d forget. I’d dance now and again to make her laugh.
Her laugh…
I missed her laughter the most.
She’d also make her big pot of homemade gravy for our Sunday dinner. It was a slow-cooking pasta sauce that tasted as if the gods had made it. Sunday dinners were a big deal at our house. We used to have dozens and dozens of people over for the meal, some of my friends included, and we’d laugh until the sun went down as everyone went apeshit over Mom’s cooking.
I missed the taste of her love. I knew it sounded crazy, but it wasn’t the ingredients she used but rather how she used them. Dad always joked that the magic was in her favorite wooden spoon that she mixed the gravy with. Now, the spoon just sat in the pantry with the rest of her cooking equipment, mostly left unbothered.
It was odd thinking about how lively the house used to be. Now, each morning was quiet, especially on the weekends. Most of the time, Dad was missing in action by the time I woke up, which was pretty early. Even though I wasn’t a morning person, I usually woke up at the crack of dawn to catch the sunrises—something I started doing after Mom passed away. I had no idea where that man went. I just knew he wasn’t at home.
When I’d get up on the weekends, I’d make my breakfast, crawl back into my room, and sit in the darkness of a house that once was a home. It was a house packed with haunting memories of how good life was before. On days when the silence would get too loud, I did one of two things. I used sex to distract me, or I’d hang out with my friends.
