Under the table, my hand involuntarily flexes. Fingers splayed out against the air.
I haven’t stopped watching Sutton and Zach. He leans forward with a napkin, wiping something off her face. Then must say something funny because she’s laughing.
Again.
Full body. Her shoulders bunch up and down. Her head tilts back, and her smile encompasses her entire face.
I hate watching how he looks at her, like he knows where every single one of her freckles are. The constellations on each cheek, or the one on the inside of her left knee. Does he know about the patch on her lower back, underneath where his hand sat earlier, that she jokes is her tramp stamp?
I hate that he gets to push a strand of her hair behind her ear. There’s no nerves. No hesitation in her as he does it. I hate how easy it is for him to be around her, pull these moves that he probably pulls on every girl, and watch her fall for it.
Who am I kidding? His reputation on campus is squeaky clean. He’s the true golden boy.
It’s a strange feeling. A nothingness that is filled with reality. This is my reality. This is what I agreed to.
“I have to get out of here.” Out of this chair. Out of this bar. Out of my head.
I get up from the table, not realizing the amount of power and intensity I let out. My hands grind into the grain of the wood as the chair beneath me clatters to the floor. I take a step backward and trip over the bottom rung.
Hitting the ground, I think I’m hitting the bottom of my well. Emotionally, mentally, and physically.
Everything is adding up around me, and I can’t do it. I can’t handle it.
Dawson lends me a hand. Chase and Jaxon are cleaning up their spicy margaritas dripping over the edge of the table. An ice cube hits my head and slides down my nose like a ski jump.
“Do you want me to go with you?” I don’t know who asks, sounds meld together.
Three of my best friends stare at me. Their expressions range. Dawson and Chase like they don’t recognize the disheveled and unwinding person in front of them.
But Jax…Jax is stoic, his typical class clown disposition gone. He gives me a nod, finishes his beer, and pulls out two twenties from my wallet.
“I’ve got him,” he tells the others.
Throwing an arm around me, we walk out of the bar.
“Home or?—”
“Do you think Beck still has a bottle of whiskey?”
“The one in the back of his closet that he hides in the bottom drawer of his dresser? Yeah, he has it.”
We leave his car in the lot. Walk the twenty-five minutes home in silence.
Two hours later, the bottle is empty.
My door creaks open.The hallway light blinding. I squint and let out an intoxicated growl. Rub my knuckles into my temple.
“Cooper Carmichael.” Maybe the growl came out of her. The glow from my bathroom backlights her. A halo around her body. She’s so pretty. Maybe I could give her a trophy off my shelf and tell her it’s for the prettiest girl in the world. Even infuriated she’s pretty. “Did you seriously send your friends to spy on my date?”
“Do you think you could be mad a little quieter?” I groan and she releases a witchy cackle good enough for Halloween. “I was there. We were getting dinner.”
She creeps across my room to my bed, crawling on it, till she’s sitting in the middle. Legs tucked underneath her. Arms crossed, eyes glowering at me.
“How was your date?”
“If you were there then you should know.” She lowers her volume. “Were you sleeping sitting up?”
“What do you want, Dave?” It comes off more aggressive, more hurt, than I mean it.
