1
ROMI
“Watch it, asshole,” I say to the guy blocking my way. I ignore whatever he calls out behind me, as well as the worried expressions from my friends, with whom he was speaking, as I stumble through the party with a bottle of vodka. I don’t give a shit what they think. They're the ones who dragged me out of the apartment to be here, so it’s on them if I’m not the ray of fucking sunshine they’re expecting.
I walk through the back door of Lorenzo Moretti’s house. Lorenzo is the new beau of my childhood best friend, Lily Taylor, who’s throwing this going-away party. They’re moving to Italy for a job promotion he got. I’m happy for her, I suppose. Then again, it’s not like I feel much of anything these days.Mainly thanks to the alcohol, I think appreciatively as I throw back a harsh swig from the bottle.
The fresh air hits me like a welcome slap to the face, and I walk down to the water's edge, taking a seat on the cool sand. I stare into the night, glaring at the bright city lights of Manhattan in the distance. I take another swig, trying to push down the lump of grief that’s been sitting there for weeks.
I close my eyes, trying to stop the thoughts of my roommate, Lorraine. A cold chill runs down my spine as the graphic memory of identifying her body flashes to mind.
Fuck, it’s stuck on a constant loop, and I can’t make it stop.
Mourning is never easy; it’s even harder to forget.
Luckily for me, I’m prepared.I hum as I pull a joint from my pocket. I search through my jacket for the lighter, cursing when I can't find it. I swear I put it in there.
“Need a lighter?”
I turn around and immediately sigh when I realize it’s the same guy I bumped into inside.
I regard him for a moment. He is objectively attractive. Probably a few years older than me, with dark-brown hair and dark-brown eyes that look almost black in the night. He clearly works out and stands a little over six feet. I have no idea who the fuck he is or how he knows Lily and Lorenzo. I’ve never seen him in our Manhattan social circles, but he oozes enough arrogance and wears designer clothing, so he’s most certainly a guy who comes from money.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Asshole himself. Hard pass.” I look away dismissively.
“As sharp as your tongue is, I don’t think it’s going to do you any favors in sparking a light for that joint.”
I turn again, looking him up and down. This guy irritates me; there's just a vibe he gives off. Then again, it doesn’t take much to piss me off lately.
“Is this your usual pick-up game? Prey on a drunk chick at a party by offering her a lighter?”
“I usually sniff out the ones who are trouble. They seem to be more to my liking. How much you drink in that time, I couldn’t give a shit,” he says, coming to take a seat beside me.
I roll my eyes and take another swig. “Great observation, but you missed the part where most people drinking straight from the bottle want to be left alone.”
He raises a brow as he offers me the lighter. I go to take it, but he pulls it back with a shit-eating grin. I really don’t like this guy.
“Let me light that for you.”
“I’m sure you’re popular with the ladies and all, but this shit doesn’t do anything for me.”
He casually shrugs. “If not for my outstanding personality, it’s certainly because of my dimples.” He makes a point to smile, and I purposely squint, as if unable to see them in the dark. I really hate guys like this, who think women will melt for them like butter. Then again, I’m not above entertaining him, as long as I can light this joint.
Fuck it. I’m never going to see this guy again anyway, so who cares.
I lean in with the joint hanging from my lips as he cups his hand around it to block the wind, then lights it. The tip ignites, flames flickering as I take a deep inhale. I draw the smoke into my lungs, and for that brief moment, I appreciate the silence. Then I exhale, and the world comes rushing back, caving in around me.
“Going to offer your knight in shining armor some?”
My gaze slices back over to him. I really can’t stand him, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt. I’m already fucked up from the vodka. Hell, this guy might even be doing me a favor.
I pass it over, and he brings it to his lips, takes a heavy draw, then looks down at it appreciatively before releasing the smoke.
“That’s some good shit,” he comments.
He hands it back over. I stare at it where it's dangling between my fingers, mesmerized by the small trail of smoke. Waves of thoughts try to come crashing back in, the lock on mychest squeezing tightly as I catch glimpses of the memories I want to forget.
I hear Lorraine’s laughter. I see her smile and her tears. I feel our friendship drifting further and further away, and the guilt of not being with her on the day she died painfully weighs heavily on my chest, as if trying to smash it further into oblivion.
