No.
Enough.
And then darkness.
Not sleep-darkness.
The kind of darkness that means I don’t get to remember what I did, only that I did it.
I wake up with a gasp, heart slamming, skin damp, my stomach rolling like I’m still drunk.
For a second I don’t know where I am.
Then the ceiling fan comes into focus. The cheap paint. The silence. My phone on the pillow, untouched.
My mouth is dry. My hands are shaking. My cheeks feel hot like I’m embarrassed all the way through my bones.
The dream clings to me like smoke.
Not sweet.
Not romantic.
Mortifying.
I sit up, dragging the old T-shirt down over my thighs like I need coverage even though I’m alone. My head pounds, and shame hits me in waves, each one bringing back another fragment.
My hands on his dick.
My body pressed way too close.
My laughter.
People watching.
Bethany’s eyes.
I press my palms to my face, breathing hard.
“Oh my God,” I whisper into my hands, and it comes out like a prayer and a curse together.
Because now I know.
I wasn’t just a girl who danced.
I was the girl who made a scene.
And Hell, Kentucky doesn’t forgive girls who embarrass the wrong woman.
Not ever.
I stumble to the bathroom on legs that don’t feel like mine, one hand pressed to my mouth, the other braced on the hallway wall like the house might tilt if I let go. The floor is cold under my feet. The air is colder. My stomach rolls like it’s still full of shine and bad choices, even though I haven’t had a drop since the Lockup.
I barely make it to the toilet before I’m gagging.
Nothing comes up but bitter spit and panic, but my body tries anyway, heaving like it can cough out shame. My eyes water. My nose runs. I grip the porcelain with both hands and breathe in sharp, humiliating pulls, like I’m learning how to exist again.
A laugh slips out of me, small and broken. It doesn’t match the moment. It’s the kind of laugh you make when you realize you’re the punchline and the whole town has already started telling the joke.
