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Why? No clue.
But it’s also not unusual for me to feel a misplaced or unexplained surge of wariness and regret after a night of drinking. Hell, after a night of socializing, period.
With age, didn’t come relief, so much as a later onset of symptoms. I didn’t grow out of anxiety…it evolved with me, shifting into something slightly more manageable. If only because I can more easily keep it at bay until I’m alone.
Later that evening, when I finally pry myself out of bed, I plug in my phone. No idea when it died, but I vaguely remember it being at, like, five percent last I checked this morning when I left O’Leary’s. By the time I got to my parents’ house, I could barely stand up, much less see, from the throbbing in my head and the nausea pushing up my throat, so charging it wasn’t really on my mind.
When it turns on, I’m surprised when only two messages come in—neither from who I’m expecting. One is time-stamped from last night, from an unknown number.
SUP BRO
I snort as a memory of Will and I calling each other that last night flutters to the surface. It all started because of how much of a dude-bro the guy became when fired up over the game. Apparently he was a jock in high school. College too. And drunk me found that hilarious.
The second message is from earlier today, from Gabe. And it’s just a picture of him sticking his tongue out with a margarita in each hand. He’s in Miami currently with his family and boyfriend.
Shaking my head, I don’t bother responding. Just the sight of a drink makes me wanna hurl.
At least it’s not blue.
Hell if I’ll ever be able to drink anything blue or fruity or sweet again.
A weird tightness moves through my chest as I pull up my conversation with Mason. The last message is one from him to me a couple days ago, and it’s just laughing emojis in response to a YouTube video he’d sent me.
I bring up my calls next, just to confirm I don’t have any missed ones from him.
Jaw clenched, I rub my fingers into my sternum, trying to relieve the ache. It…it isn’t like him to not check in with me, seeing as I just upped and left without a word, or a text or, hell, a note. This is Mason after all. He’s a leech. My leech.
Careful…
When I’m away at school, it’s one thing.
But when I’m here…
A bad feeling stirs in my gut at the same time a renewed throbbing makes itself known in my temple as my mind races through last night.
The benefit concert.
He wasn’t happy about that when I’d asked, and it’s what prompted me to drown myself in more drinks.
But then?—
My eyes fall shut as the phantom sensation of fingers running through my hair surges forward, hitching my breath.
No…why…just no…
Shaking my head, I bury my face in my hands and try to remember what else happened.
Fuck, did I say something?
Do something?
Just as soon as I think it, I remember—he carried me upstairs.
Piggy back style.
My breaths quicken as I remember laughing, squeezing him, feeling so…so fucking giddy, and just wanting more.
Oh God, I…I didn’t…I couldn’t have…
