“Maybe. Fuck if I know. There’s this girl at school?—”
“Ooh, agirl?” I ask, eager for the spotlight off of my life and back on his.
He grins a little. “Yeah. She’s, uh, cool. Eliza. Just a friend, though. I talk to her about stuff. Stuff I’ve never told anyone. Stuff I definitely couldn’t tell Genevieve when we were dating. It’s kinda cathartic.”
“I have an Eliza,” I say, thinking of Wes. “But I can’t talk to him about…stuff.”
“Why not?”
I stare at the liquor bottle until my eyes go cross, trying to come up with an acceptable reason. I can’t. “It’s my problem, I guess. Not his.”
Noah fills our shot glasses once again. “Yup. That’s what gets in the way. Our own fucked up shit, passed down from Mom and Dad, most likely.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, still thinking it over. “Yeah, I guess.”
Suddenly, his attention shifts to the screen mounted to the wall. “Hey, I love this movie,” he says, reaching for the remote. He turns up the volume, and just likethat,serious, introspective Noah is gone, replaced by drunk and dazed Noah. It’s for the best. My brain’s already malfunctioning from our little heart-to-heart. Any more, and I might implode from the contradiction of it all.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him, standing on wobbly legs. I stumble to the bathroom, shutting the door and leaning against the counter. The room’s not spinning, but the colors are vibrant and a little wiggly, and I decide I’m definitely done drinking for the night.
Lowered inhibitions make me pull out my phone. My fingers fumble over the keypad as I message the person I know I shouldn’t and said I wouldn’t.
Me:I’m sorry.
Me:I’m so sorry.
Me:I hope you don’t hate me.
I stare at the screen for way too long, waiting for those little blue dots to appear. I bite my thumbnail and picture all the things he could be doing right now. Hanging with his roommates. Studying in his room. Watching a movie with some other lucky girl who doesn’t have some fucked up trauma response to his touch. A girl who can give him the emotional and physical availability he deserves.
Tears leak out of my eyes. I can’t help it. I’ve crossed the threshold into sad drunk, and I sink to the tiled floor, my head in my hands. I just sit there and cry—violent, shoulder shaking sobs. When I finally calm myself down enough to think straight, I wonder if maybe Noah’s right. Maybe I need to tell someone. Maybe I need to talk through my shit.
How can you put that on another person when you can’t even handle it yourself?
I don’t know. It’s fucked up. It’s not fair. And if he can’t handle it…if he can’t handle it, it will crush me completely.
But even so, it’s the only way forward I can see. Every other road just loops right back around, and heaven knows I’ve been walking in circles for over a year now. Becoming friends with Wes was a wonderfully scenic detour, but through no fault of his, I’m still right back where I started.
And I’m so damn tired.
At some point, I mercifully pass out. I have no idea how long I’m asleep for, but I wake early in the morning on the bathroom floor, my phone cradled to my chest and my cheek pressed against the tile. My mouth’s dry as sandpaper, and construction workers are hammering inside my head, but I roll to a seated position with a groan. The world’s still wiggly, adrenaline kicking in, and nausea churns my stomach as I remember my stupid decision to text Wes last night. I very nearly puke when I see he never responded, and tears burn my eyes again.
How do I have any left?
Stumbling to my feet, I shuffle out into the basement to find Noah splayed across the couch. The TV’s still on, and I shake him awake before gathering up the evidence of our drinking session. He groans, fingers immediately massaging his temple, and I’m starting to think he spends his life in one of two states—drunk or hungover. It’s probably not the best thing for him, but who am I to judge anyone? I mean, really.
“We should get to bed before Mom wakes up,” I mutter.
“Good idea,” he mumbles, and together, we drag our feet up the stairs. Noah puts the bottle back in its place, and we head off to our separate bedrooms. I collapse into the mattress and doze for another five hours, and when I wake again there’s a new message on my screen.
Wes:I could never hate you, Ivy.
My world lights up.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It’s nearlyone when I drag myself out of bed to eat lunch with my family, and then I start the drive back to campus. Thankfully, I was able to sleep off most of my hangover, and with a clear head, I know what I need to do.
I don’t go to my apartment. I drive straight past it, winding through the main street of town until I reach the turnoff for Wes’s house. I don’t think as I park along the curb. I don’t think as I turn off the car. I don’t think as I climb the stairs to his front door and ring the bell. Because if I start thinking too much, I’ll talk myself out of listening to my heart instead of my head.
