I don’t know when the outreach ends, but I know that it’s a party now, and there are more drinks, and guys laughing at me, and girls watching me and talking behind their hands, and Robin gets me alone in a bathroom.He tries to take off my jeans, and when I stop him, he slaps me hard enough to make my ears ring.I end up in the bathtub, my legs sticking up over the edge because I can’t seem to make them work properly, and he’s screaming down at me.And then he’s gone, and a girl wants to use the bathroom, and a couple of guys are nice enough to walk me out into the night, and for a while, I’m on the lawn.
It browns out after that.
Sudden, drenching cold, and I’m awake, sitting up.My head explodes.I’m sopping wet, and I breathe in some of the water and start to cough, and it’s too bright, and that makes my headache worse.
It’s probably fifteen seconds of skull-splitting agony and trying not to chuck before it starts to make sense.The porch.The familiar pair of running shoes.My oh-so-sorry ass.
And last night comes rushing back in.
And Sam.
I must make some kind of noise, because Emery checks the bucket hanging from his hand, like he might need more water, and says, “If you’re going to throw up, do it in the flower bed.”
But I don’t.I just feel like I’m going to die.
“Your car is parked halfway up the verge,” Emery says as he grabs the screen door.“You’re technically sober now.And I don’t like finding feral detectives on my porch.”
He goes inside, but he doesn’t shut the door behind him.
I sit there for a while, dripping.The headache levels out to a nice, steady agony, and it only flares when I move my head or open my eyes or try to think.My body is stiff from sleeping—technically, passing out—on the porch.But what really hurts is everything flooding in from the night before.Every moment.Every word.
When I crawl over to the screen door, Emery has left a towel inside.
I dry myself off, which means I use the towel until I stop dripping.I take off my shoes.And then I head into the house.It’s quiet, which must mean Colt and Evie are out.I pass through the living room, where Emery must have been straightening up—no forgotten cups, no shoes left behind, no scattered socks or bags of potato chips.None of the evidence of a teenage boy living here.For fuck’s sake, Emery’s even lined up the remotes.It probably gave him a boner.
He’s in the kitchen, wiping down the counters.There’s a glass of water and ibuprofen.He’s a softy once you get to know him.
“I mopped these floors yesterday,” he says.“If you get them dirty, you can clean them.”
I sink onto a stool and raise my hands in surrender.Then I take the pills and drink the water.He fills the glass again without commentary, but I don’t pick it up again.
“Okay,” I say.Croak, really.My voice is shit.“Let’s hear it.”
“You’re a fucking piece of shit.Was some part of that unclear to you?”
“Not so much, no.”There’s a tiny ring of water around the bottom of the glass, and I trail my finger through it.“What, uh, happened?”
“You showed up at three in the morning, moaning and scrabbling at the windows like a fucking lab rat.”
“Uh, not actually what I—”
“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t piss yourself.You didn’t piss yourself, did you?”
“Kind of hard to tell after you dumped that bucket of water on me.”
“I’m going to choose to believe that you did.”
Okay, so he’s notthatmuch of a softy.
“And John’s not here, so if you’re looking for some kind of pick-me-up or motivational speech or comforting shoulder to cry on, you can fuck right off.”But, in true Emery style, he’s still warming up.“Sit there.Don’t talk.”
So, I sit.He gets soda crackers and puts them on a plate for me.Then he puts two slices of bread in the toaster, and we sit there while it toasts.He’s glowering at me to make sure I know how much he doesn’t like me right now.But he does give me the toast.And then, for some reason, he gets a can of Campbell’s chicken and stars and dumps it into a pot and sets it to warm.I haven’t had that since I was eight or nine, down with the flu, and my mom told me her mom always made her chicken noodle soup when she was sick.Not that my mom was much for mothering, but, you know.
He breaks off long enough to shout, “Eat your fucking crackers!”
