After a couple of minutes, I manage to stop hurling, but my throat burns and my stomach hurts and I’m sure I smell like vomit. When I head back toward where Jordan waits, he begins walking to meet me.
I hold up a hand and weakly blurt out, “As a girl with a very tiny hope of still being able to look you in the eyes after today, please don’t come too close.”
He stops abruptly and laughs. “Fine, but you can’t drive home.”
“I know, but I can walk. I don’t live too far from here and I can walk over to get my car in the morning.” I stumble over my own feet, but somehow manage not to face-plant.
Jordan is already shaking his head. “How about a compromise? I’ll drive you home in your car?”
I tilt my head in confusion. “But then you’ll be at my house … you don’t live there.”
“I know.” Jordan laughs again, louder this time. “It will be fine. I’ll just walk back to get my bike.”
My eyes widen. “You came here on a bike?”
He grins and the skin around his eyes crinkles. “Different kind of bike. I have a motorcycle.”
I shake my head far too fast and then have to stop and breathe. “I don’t know how to ride one of those.”
“I was afraid of that. And doing it drunk the first time isn’t the best plan.” He winks at me and I see he’s come closer again.
I take a step to the side. “So you can jog back here in the middle of the night and I can’t walk home now?”
He lowers his chin and stares at me. “Are you really saying that it is the same to let you walk home, wasted and alone, as it is for me to jog back here sober? You’re too cute, and I don’t know these neighborhoods very well. Don’t fight me on this one.”
“Ugh, fine.” I tug my keys out of my pocket and hand them to him, then walk slowly toward my car. I throw him a frail smile over my shoulder. “I should’ve called Matthew. I bet he’s less stubborn.”
“You’ve never seen him at bedtime.”
I climb unsteadily into the passenger seat. “That bad, huh?”
“Plus, he can’t drive. Trust me, I’m the best option for you.” He turns the car key and I smile to myself as I lean my heavy head back against the seat. His assessment just might be the most truthful thing I’ve heard in days.
9
SUNLIGHT HAS NEVER SEEMED SO EVIL BEFORE. I vaguely remember liking it at some point, but right now it seems like it’s trying to drill a hole through my eyelids and into my brain. I want someone to make it stop. Groaning, I pull my pillow out from under my head and place it on my face to block out the light. It works, but even the pressure from my pillow feels like it might make me throw up.
I tug the pillow off and moan as I roll toward the edge of my bed. Everything hurts. This is what alcohol does? Why the hell do people even drink? This is so not worth it.
A light knocking sounds on the door, and I realize I don’t remember getting home last night. Much of the night feels blurry, actually. I blink and sit up quickly, relieved to see that I am, in fact, in my room. Then my head explodes with new pain and I lower it into my hands as I hear the door open.
“This is only the beginning of your punishment, my dear.” Behind the anger, I hear notes of sympathy in Mama’s voice and I know she isn’t as mad at me as she probably should be.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and my voice sounds like a frog with one foot in the grave. Even more pleasant, my mouth tastes like I ate that frog in my sleep.
Mama steps over to the bed and rests one arm gently around my shoulder. “We’re going to have a talk about last night, but first let’s see if we can help with the pain you’re in. I’ll grab you some ibuprofen and coffee. Then you take a shower while I make you something to eat. Okay?”
“Okay, Mama.” I lean my head on her arm, but then lift it again when even that increases my pain. “Sorry again, and thank you.”
*
The coffee is bitter. I’m not a big coffee fan, but it helps me open my eyes a bit and feel more ready to face a shower. By the time I’m out of the scalding hot water, the ibuprofen has kicked in and I’m in less physical pain. I’ve also had the time to fully remember everything that happened with Jordan at the park last night, and so emotionally I’m flip-flopping between embarrassed that he saw me that way and horrified that I had called him of all people when I was in that state.
I am never drinking again. Ever.
I told him things I never should have, cried my eyes out on his shoulder, and then puked in front of him. It seems a reasonable conclusion that I’ll never see him again, and I honestly can’t blame him. Then again, even after he’d seen all that, he’d taken my keys, helped me into my car, and driven me home. But he barely knows me. Why did he do all of that for a complete stranger?