"Let's get drinks!" Emma yells over the music.
She leads me to the bar and orders herself a cranberry juice and me a vodka soda. I down it in three gulps and order another.
"Easy," Emma says, watching me. "We just got here."
"I'm fine."
The second drink goes down easier. The third even easier than that. The alcohol blurs the edges, makes everything feel less sharp, less real.
Emma gets us a spot near the edge of the dance floor. She's moving to the music, trying to get me to dance. I try, forcing my body to move even though it feels disconnected from my brain.
But then the alcohol starts working, loosening the tight knot in my chest, making the music feel less overwhelming and more like something I can actually move to. Emma grabs my hands and spins me around, laughing, and for a moment, I remember what this used to feel like: being young and free and not carrying the weight of everything that's happened.
The song changes to something with a heavier beat, something that makes it impossible not to move. Emma's dancing like she doesn't have a care in the world, and I find myself actually smiling, actually feeling something other than numb.
"There she is!" Emma yells over the music, grinning at me. "I knew you were still in there!"
We dance through three songs, maybe four. My feet hurt in these heels, but I don't care. For the first time in months, I'm not thinking about Lily or the supply closet or the blade hidden under the bathroom sink. I'm just here, in this moment, letting the music drown out everything else.
A group of girls near us is celebrating something, a birthday or a bachelorette party, I can't tell, and they pull Emma into their circle. She drags me along, and suddenly we're all dancing together, strangers who don't know my history, who just see a girl having a good night.
I catch my reflection in one of the mirrored walls and barely recognize myself. Curls wild around my face, my brown skin glowing under the lights, actually smiling. I look alive.
When was the last time I looked alive?
Emma leans in close. "Having fun?"
"Yeah," I say, and realize I mean it. "Yeah, I actually am."
"Good. You deserve this."
I'm not sure I deserve anything, but I don't say that. Just let myself have this moment, this brief escape from everything waiting for me back at the house.
The thought of Jackson flashes through my mind. He's home right now with Chase, probably helping put Ethan to bed or playing video games in the basement. I wonder if he noticed I went out tonight, wonder if he's thinking about me at all, or if I'm just another problem he's stuck dealing with because his sister took pity on me.
The thought shouldn't sting, but it does.
"You okay?" Emma asks, noticing I've gone quiet.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
"Nothing important." I shake my head. "Come on, I need another drink."
We head back to the bar, and Emma orders our drinks. I'm on my fourth vodka soda now, or maybe my fifth, and the world has that pleasant fuzzy quality that makes everything feel manageable.
For about ten minutes, anyway.
Then the pleasant buzz from the alcohol starts to curdle into something else. The club suddenly feels too small, the music too loud, the bodies pressed too close. My heart rate picks up, and I can feel sweat beading at the back of my neck.
"I'm going to the bathroom," I tell Emma, but I'm already moving away from her, weaving through the crowd toward the other side of the bar instead.
The bartender's busy with other customers, and I flag him down, my hands shaking. "Tequila. Shot."
He pours it and slides it across. I throw it back without waiting for a lime, the burn familiar and grounding.
"Another," I say, and he pours again.
