I abandoned my reflection in search of a pair of yoga pants and a soft fleece jacket. Real clothes and makeup would have to wait until after I got my appetite under control. I never wanted to think about Dearborn again. Except somehow it’d been all I could think about for weeks. I’d thought about it so much that it had chewed the gaping hole through my chest.
Dressed, I tugged a comb through my damp hair. Only last night and even this morning, it was like the gaping hole had vanished. It was like I’d never gotten drunk at that stupid bar or stumbled away from my friends or gone off with that stupid group of college guys.
It was like I was still me.
Like they’d never hurt me.
I froze, waiting for the memory to gnaw a fresh crater where my heart should be, but none opened up. I could breathe. In and out, in and out. I felt genuinely good. Maybe my friends had been right after all. A night out was exactly what I’d needed. Kids my age. Fun. High school.
There was no reason to worry. Everything was fine. People had little blackouts all the time after a party. I nearly giggled at the memory of Billy Ray, who once took off his shirt at a party, drew a smiley face on his ample stomach, using his belly button as the mouth, and went around using it like a ventriloquist dummy. When we brought it up at school, he had absolutely no recollection of his routine.
See? I was better than fine.
I returned my comb to the drawer, enjoying the scent of eucalyptus shampoo and the comfort of lotion on my skin, and then, without sparing another thought for Dearborn, headed downstairs to the kitchen.
Mom was using a spatula to wrestle a pancake from the griddle. She dropped the perfectly browned circle of batter onto a plate. Dad peered into the microwave while a plate of bacon spun around and around. He didn’t know how to use the stove.
Honor was the first to look up. “Don’t worry. I didn’t let Mom use any blueberries in yours,” she said. She sat on one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table, knees tucked into her chest and pajama bottoms covering her toes.
“Thank goodness,” I said with exaggerated relief. The tile was cool on my feet as I wandered over to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice.
“Somebody’s up and at ’em this morning.” Dad stood up from the microwave. I couldn’t count the number of times my mom had told him not to watch the food while it spun inside or else he’d get cancer from the radiation, but when it came to food, my dad was a little kid, always sneaking treats and never able to wait patiently for the next meal, which explained the endearing cushion of fat that protruded past the waistband of his weekend sweats.
“I guess so,” I said, trying to sound casual, as though I’d never stopped attending our Saturday morning breakfasts in favor of sulking in my room.
Mom turned her back from the griddle. She had a dollop of batter stuck in her bangs. “You look … healthy,” she said.
Healthy. That was nice, I supposed. But what had I been looking like normally, the Crypt Keeper? A few months ago, I probably would have immediately assumed she meant “fat.” After pouring a glass of orange juice, I returned the carton to its spot in the fridge.
“Oh, Cassidy, can you grab the strawberries in there? We need something semi-nutritious.”
“Since when?” The microwave beeped and my dad grabbed the plate of bacon, yelping when it was too hot to handle. “Youch!” He pressed his fingers to his mouth.
“Careful.” I laughed—not that I was keeping score, but that was at least the second time in twenty-four hours. I slid the strawberries over to my mom.
“That’s strange. One of my knives is missing,” Mom said, studying the wooden block that held her kitchen set. “Are you using it, Darren?”
Dad shook his head. I plopped down on a chair next to Honor and pulled my phone from my pocket. Five unread text messages.
The first three were from Paisley.
Where are you? I can’t find you anywhere and this party is past its expiration date. The message was sent at midnight. I scanned to her second text.
Hello? You’re my ride home. Did you ditch me for Liam???
I chewed on my nail. Had I really abandoned Paisley? That did sound a little like me. Shit.
Ava’s giving me a ride home. Next time you want to take a drive down easy street, you could at least let me know … Text me so I know you got home ok tho, promise?
A mixture of emotions swept through me. I’d always thought Paisley’s jokes—that I was easy—were harmless until recently when I realized they could hurt my credibility. It felt too late and too convenient to try to tell people now that, sure, I liked to get drunk and kiss boys, but … that was it. Besides, maybe Paisley was a little bit right about me. I wasn’t sure anymore.
The next text was from Ava.
Ignore Paize. She’s drunk. Both glad to see you having fun. Ta-ta!
I smiled at that. See? I was right. I had had a good time. I still was having a good time.