"What happened? How did he get so drunk?" I asked Wilder.
"He snuck in some flasks."
"Flasks? Like as in plural?"
"Yep. Three to be exact," Wilder said.
"But why?" My mind was struggling to understand. Slate drank at parties and stuff, but never got completely wasted. He cared too much about making sure his body performed at its all time best. He'd brought three flasks? And how many shots had he fit in those flasks?
Wilder looked between Slate and me, almost as if he was nervous to say why.
Slate had finally stopped throwing up and wiped his mouth. "You say the words and I'll punch you in the face," he slurred out to Wilder.
"C'mon, Slate, he's one of your closest friends," Wilder replied. "If he's going to help me lift your heavy ass and take you home, the least you can do is let me tell him why. It might be good for you, too, maybe help you process a little."
Slate's face turned red, anger rolling off him. "Process? You don't just process your mom dying."
Whoa. I had known that his parents never came around, but I had no idea that his mom was gone. He never mentioned his parents.
"Slate, you're drunk, and I know you're upset, but—" Wilder said, before Slate cut him off.
"You have no clue what it's like," he yelled. "You still have your mom, and this guy," he said, waving his hand toward me, "calls his mommy after every game, so don't sit there and tell me you know."
"I didn't mean that I know what you're going through," Wilder sighed, being extremely patient with him. "I just meant that I can see that you're upset. You're too drunk to be having a rational conversation right now. We just need to get you home."
Another round of vomit started, and Slate hurled into the toilet again.
Once the waves of vomit stopped, Wilder helped him lean against the wall, his head falling back against the hard tiles.
"I just miss her so damn much," Slate mumbled. "Miss how my life used to be..." His voice trailed off as his eyes fluttered closed.
Wilder and I sat in the silence for a moment, waiting to see if he would rouse to throw up again.
"Thanks for coming, Rush," Wilder said, sounding tired. "It’s difficult to lift him on my own. You get one side and I'll get the other."
We both heaved him up from the floor and got him awake enough to be on his feet, his eyes barely open. He swayed as we left the bathroom, Wilder and I working to keep him upright.
Thankfully the bathrooms were by the elevators, so not too many people saw us dragging him out of there.
We remained silent as we walked him out to Wilder's truck, finally getting him in the back seat.
Wilder closed the door and then faced me. "Thanks again. He doesn't like people knowing about his mom. He doesn't like even talking about her. I knew tonight was going to be hard for him, but I had hoped this year wasn't going to be a repeat of previous years." He rubbed the back of his head. "Five years ago, his parents left to go to a New Year's Eve party one night and she never came back home. She died in a car accident."
My eyes widened at his words. "I had no idea. He never mentions them, so I just thought that maybe he didn't have a good relationship with his parents and that's why they never came around."
Wilder shook his head. "His story isn't mine to tell, but after his mom's death, his father went into a deep depression, completely changed. Slate practically had to finish raising himself. It was like he lost both parents that night."
"That's awful," I said, not knowing what else to say. I couldn't imagine losing my mom. She was such a steady rock in my life. And then to lose my relationship with my dad? I didn't know where I would be in my life if it weren't for my parents. Thinking about Slate's actions and lifestyle, everything made a little more sense to me now. He was running, always running from the pain.
"Like I said, he doesn't like to talk about it or for people to know, so let's just keep this between the three of us."
"Yeah, of course," I assured him.
"You okay to follow me to my place and help me get him up the stairs?" he asked.
"Yep."
I walked to my car and followed Wilder back to his apartment. We got Slate up the stairs somehow and laid him on his bed, his large body making the queen size bed look like a twin.
