go. Who knew these things happened on Thursday nights? I think I said that aloud. We walked, laughing into the hot night, then Josh hung back a little so it was just us walking together, and I can’t remember what we talked about, but he was smiling at me.
Oh, I think at one point the girl with the tattoos pulled me aside to tell me Josh is a really good guy and I smiled and beamed and was just, like, “I know.”
Oh, and when we were almost at the venue I complained that I was starting to get sleepy and the girl said, “Here!” and got out the baggie and dipped her keys into the end and held it up to me, and I figured it was such a small amount that I went ahead and sucked it up into my nose, and I’m not sure it did anything, but it did sort of taste bad in there, like when you’re congested and you sniff in some of that nose-clearing stuff. Afrin.
Then we were at the party and there was a big line outside, but Rocco knew to just walk to the front and say something and when we turned around he had entry passes like business cards for all of us, and we took them and showed them at the door and showed our IDs, too, and put everything back into our wallets and then the party inside was like a storm, flashbulbs and lasers and strobe lights and platforms with pretty people in lamé bathing suits dancing on them, and a mass of people dancing everywhere, like a whole shag carpet of dancing people. And Josh got me a beer and then we were dancing together, swooping around and letting the music pound through our skeletons, and I wondered why I never dance like this anymore, and then Josh grabbed my chin and kissed me, and it was kind of a gross, sloppy kiss, but we were both drunk so what do you expect, and then we were making out on the dance floor and I kind of giggled, remembering how Edie used to call dance-floor make-outs DFMOs, and then
* * *
Blackness.
* * *
Pain like lightning. I squeezed my eyes closed again for a moment, taking stock, then opened them into the light streaming through my windows. Normally I close the curtains before bed; normally I pull the blackout shade down behind them. I rolled over, something grinding along the inside of my skull.
I was in my own bed, fully clothed, my jeans torn at the knee. Josh was not beside me. I stared at the sheets while pieces of the night resurfaced like developing Polaroids: shots at Jimmy Rhoda’s. An impassioned discussion with a girl at that kid’s shitty apartment. My stomach churned: a house key hovering in front of my face, a tiny hill of white powder on the end. Music so loud it joggled my skull. How had I gotten home? Had I embarrassed myself? Fuck.
Everything hurt. Every inch of my entrails ached and roiled; my head buzzed with pain like it was a bell being struck, and my neck, back, and shoulders were one hard mass. Being awake hurt. Being alive hurt. And I felt a torrent of self-hatred, shame, and disgust singeing every nerve ending at the same time, over and over and over again.
Moving slowly, I sat up and crawled off the end of the bed, pausing there, the world flashing blue and white, to see if I’d pass out. When I didn’t, I lumbered toward the bathroom, hanging on to furniture as I passed. I sat on the toilet for a while, then swallowed four Advils, the bare minimum to have any effect. I drank two cupped handfuls of water, unsure I could make it to the kitchen for a glass. Then, almost crawling, I crossed to the dresser, took the antidepressant I’d missed the night before, and climbed back into bed.
I woke up to someone touching my shoulder. Tessa.
“How are you feeling?” she asked when I squinted at her.
I groaned.
“I brought you this.” She handed me a huge Gatorade in my favorite flavor: orange. I struggled to uncap it for a moment before she snatched it back and opened it for me. It tasted like cold, flavored sweat.
“Here. For your head.” She spread a damp washcloth over my eyes as I let out another groan.
“What are you doing here?” I said finally. So grateful she had her own