And then he’s lifting up my skirt and touching me in ways I don’t want to be. I try to roll away, but my limbs are made of lead or stone or some other thing I can’t control and I can’t move, can’t speak, still can’t breathe. I melt into the bedspread, sink beneath the mattress, disintegrate into dust, float far, far away?—
Paindraws me back. Pressure and pain. Sharp. Rough. Dry.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he mumbles.
Tears leak out of my eyes, and I want to, need to, try to twist away, but I’m just a lifeless mound of skin and tissue and bone, and maybe that’s better because skin and tissue and bone can’t think.
But they can feel pain.
I want to go home.
The world blurs, and I shut my eyes. I try to breathe. I disappear inside myself, slowly counting backward fromten. When I finally reachone, the weight falls away, and then he’s zipping up his pants. “Are you feeling okay?” he’s saying as he adjusts my shirt back over my bra. My skirt back over my thighs. “You drank way too much. Maybe sleep it off for a while.”
And then he’s gone.
He leaves me there, but I feel no relief.
He took the good parts of me with him.
NOW
My head is buriedin a bush as I puke up the contents of my stomach.
Every time I think it’s over, more comes up. The stench of vomit and tequila burns my throat, clogs my nose, stings my eyes. I drank a lot. Too much. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here.
Cool fingers brush my neck, pulling my hair back from my face. “I’ve got you,” says a female voice I vaguely recognize.
I puke again, hands braced against my knees. I start to cry.
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. You just drank too much. It’s all going to be fine. Let me get Wes, okay? Ben! Can you get Wes? Hurry.”
I puke again. Bile now. My stomach is empty, but my body’s not registering.
Footsteps. Concerned voices. New hands against my neck, soothing.
“I’m here, Ivy,” Wes murmurs. “I’m here.” He rubs circles over my back. “Fuck, baby. I didn’t think you drank that much.”
I can’t answer, too busy catching my breath. I wait for the next round of nausea to hit, but it never comes, and I sink tothe ground. Wes crouches next to me. I can’t focus on him. Everything’s spinning.
“Don’t cry,” he whispers, and his warm hand brushes against my cheek. “It kills me when you cry. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re gonna go back to the house, alright?”
I must nod because next thing I know, Wes is helping me stand and we’re walking. My feet won’t coordinate, though, stumbling all over each other, and eventually he sweeps me up into his arms. He cradles me against his chest. He keeps walking.
The ceiling spins as we enter the house. I bury my face against his shoulder. My stomach cramps. There’s a reason I shouldn’t be in here, but I can’t grasp it. I can’t grasp the reason. Only the feeling.Dread. It stabs me through the heart, and I cry into Wes’s neck. It’s warm and smells nice, and I shouldn’t be crying. But I can’t get past the bad feeling.
I might be sick again.
“We’re almost to the bedroom,” he murmurs. “Then you can be sick.”
“I’ll get her water,” says the woman. “She needs to hydrate.”
“Thanks, Chloe.”
I end up with my head in the toilet, my stomach convulsing. As soon as I think the nausea’s over, my body cramps and I’m heaving again, even though there’s nothing left.
At some point, I end up in bed, a cool washcloth on my head, a beautiful man urging me to drink water. “Tiny sips, there you go.”
I do it even though I don’t want to, and when he praises me, I start to cry again. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserveanything.
