"I thought you figured it out already."
"Figured out what?"
"Why I'm not going to chat her up."
He stares at me. I stare at him.
"You know what?" I say after a moment, smashing the awkward silence. "I think it's time for another drink."
*
I buy a drink, and then another, and then another, and I know that tomorrow when I check my bank balance, I'm going to curse myself for spending as much as I am on alcohol. But right now, I don't care. I want to distract myself from thinking about that conversation I had with Curtis. In fact, I want to distract myself from thinking about him in general.
Curtis drinks a lot too. I wonder why.
I dance so much my shirt gets soaked with sweat, which is disgusting, but I don't care how I look. I love the pound of the music and I love the darkness, where the only thing I can see are flickers of light and hints of people's white teeth.
We take more and more photos and I check my phone several times, but I never know what time is it. Midnight? No, later than that. One. Two. Three. Four.
*
In the Uber, Kennedy says I have to be quiet once we get to the beach house, otherwise Erin will skin us alive.
Bonnie's giggling. "I don't think he'll make it upstairs." Her voice is raspy — all of our voices are softer after spending hours shouting in the club. My throat hurts. I've told everyone at least three times.
"Someone will have to help him," says Curtis. He's almost as intoxicated as me.
Kennedy sighs. She must be the most sober if she got the Uber. I remember her making me drink water at the club. I remember Curtis's voice in the background, talking about the science of water and alcohol in the body. Kennedy had gotten frustrated and told him to shut up, and Curtis told her not to be rude, and Bonnie had laughed hysterically.
"I'm not even that drunk," I say, too loudly. I know I'm loud because in the review mirror, the Uber driver looks at me. It's impossible to tell whether he's amused or annoyed. Probably annoyed.
"Maybe not," Bonnie says. "But you're the loudest."
"How did you get so drunk?" Kennedy grumbles.
"It's Curtis's fault," I say, pointing to him, sitting in the passenger seat.
I don't think anyone believes me, because no one responds to that. "I'll help him," Curtis says a couple of minutes later.
We arrive at the beach house and Bonnie covers her mouth with a hand, so I do the same. As quietly as possible, we sneak through the front door. The others whisper stuff to each other, and then Curtis helps lead me up the stairs, the lights off, so we move up the steps in the darkness.
"I'm fine!" I say, pushing myself out of his grip.
Once in the attic bedroom, Curtis closes the door and turns on my bedside table lamp, which is the closest light. We avoid turning on the main light because that much light will blind us.
Curtis goes over to close the open curtains, and I fall onto my bed with a muffled thud.
"Can you get into your pyjamas?" Curtis asks, appearing over me.
I smirk. "Will you wear your striped pyjamas?"
He doesn't answer as he moves around me, and I don't understand what he's doing until he finds what he's looking for and passes me a pair of black sweatpants.
He walks over to his bed, his movements slower than when he's sober. He strips off his shoes and pants with his back to me. He pulls up his pyjama bottoms.
"Your pyjamas are adorable," I stage-whisper.
"Get changed," he says, tying up the drawstring of the pants.
