23
In his lucid moments, Avery couldn’t remember ever having a worse migraine. Although, he couldn’t say how much of the nausea was the migraine and how much was the hangover. Not that it mattered when his head was over the toilet bowl and his throat was on fire.
He hadn’t meant to drink so much. When he’d walked off the stage the night before, he’dmeantto curl up under a rock and die, but then suddenly, Wanda had been there, with Vasquez beside her. One of them pressed a glass of wine in his hand. Then the drinks kept coming until he didn’t care Linc had stood him up. Didn’t care about the twenty-nine seconds of awkward silence before Aunt Brenda put up a paddle and shouted, “Seventy-five dollars!”
The memory of Aunt Brenda’s excited wave when the gavel came down pulsed in his head and turned his brain to paste. He needed a drill, a spike, anything sharp and pointy to relieve the pressure and let it leak out of his ears or wherever else it could escape.
The second time, he didn’t make it to the bathroom before he puked again.
The bitter taste of his pills lingered between his teeth, so Vasquez must have gone to his apartment. Or maybe they were at his apartment? But no, they couldn’t be. Wanda said he was too drunk to drive. She and Vasquez had brought him back to their place, and they’d played a board game involving racing plastic camels with elastics. He’d laughed his head off, knowing the laughter was only fueled by alcohol because his heart was in pieces. Everything got hazy afterwards.
A hand brushed over his forehead. Warm. Dry. He whimpered.
“Hey, Red.”
Avery rolled, pulling the blanket over him and burrowing down.
Slowly, after hours—days?—the pain receded. Slowly, the pounding gavel in his head lessened. His mouth tasted like the inside of a garbage can, and the rest of him felt scooped out and shredded. When he pushed up from the mattress, his shirt smelled like booze and puke, and he stripped before it made him sick again.
He was in the little guest room. The one where Linc had hauled him up against the door and told him to stay away from Quinn. Avery had been so happy in that moment.
The hallway was quiet. He went to the bathroom, found a clean towel, and showered. Or, rather, he leaned against the cool tile and let the hot water pummel his body until he was flushed and dizzy again. The steam was so thick, he could barely see the door when he pulled the curtain back, and it took three passes with the towel before he made out his reflection in the mirror.
He shouldn’t have bothered. He looked like death. A zombie. His skin was gray-green, and the stripe of bruising still hadn’t faded from under one eye.
Avery sighed. He had no idea what time it was. Midday at least. He should go home. Vaguely, he remembered his aunt saying something about him coming over for dinner this weekend. Maybe tonight? He couldn’t say he had other plans.
Linc hadn’t been there. Avery had been trying to avoid thinking those exact words, but there it was. The one empty chair. Avery had taken one final step forward, as the last of his hope shredded itself to pieces. He’d caught Vasquez’s gaze beneath the glow of the spotlight, and she’d had rage in her eyes, while Wanda shook her head sadly. She’d gone to lift her paddle, but Vasquez nudged her, and Avery was grateful for that small mercy. No need to prolong the humiliation.
He hadn’t come. Might never have been planning to come in the first place, for all Avery knew.
But he was sitting on the bed when Avery walked back into his borrowed bedroom. Linc seemed impossibly big in the dark room, shoulders hunched as he twisted his fingers in his lap.
“Hey, Red.”
Avery went to cross his arms over his naked chest, but the towel slipped on his hips, and he had to grab for it.
“What are you doing here?”Where have you been?
“Vasquez called me.”
“When?”How much do you know?
“This morning.”
He tightened the towel around his waist. Equal parts of hurt and embarrassment twisted inside him, caked in a thick muck of anger.
“Red, I’m sorry,” Linc said. Every word hurt Avery’s insides like glass.
“Yeah.” Goose bumps rose up on his skin. Linc liked his skin. Liked to kiss it and suck on it, liked to trace his fingers over the freckles and call him beautiful. “I’d like to put some clothes on, please.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He reached behind him and produced a small pile. “Vasquez picked these up when she went to get your pills.”
Avery stared at them. HisWinterlandsT-shirt was on the top. He didn’t reach for it, because he might touch Linc’s hand, and if he did, he’d very likely crumble to a pyramid of salt on the floor.
He stood still, and eventually—eighteen seconds later—Linc got the hint.
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
