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I’m not sure if he wants to see what’s going to happen with me or is just looking out for me. I will tell you, though, I can be a very entertaining drunk. So you might want to stick around for the show.
“Maybe you should slow down and talk to her,” Mase urges.
“She ignored me for a goddamn month.” I point my finger at him. Or at least I think I am, but when Remy, who’s returned, moves my finger two feet to the left, I realize I’d just pointed at a chick’s ass. “I think she’s done talking. Or maybe she isn’t going to talk to me. You know what, I don’t care.” I wave my hand around. “I do not care. Fuck that. I’m about to be on the cover ofFuck You, Assholes.”
“Are you okay?” Remy asks next to me. “You’re not making any sense.”
“To who? You?” I turn, exaggerated and quite slow, the room spinning with it. “You’re drinking Nyquil. But while we’re on the subject, do I look like I’m okay?” I wave my drink around in the process, splashing Mase. “Nothing about this is fucking okay.” I slam the drink down. “Not fucking okay.”
“Fuck.” Remy sits back, not sure what else to do. “Is it really yours?”
“Probably,” I mumble. “She sure as shit made it sound like it was.”
Mase stands. “I’m going to bed. Make sure he gets to his room.” He stops at the bar. “Stop serving him.” And then gestures to me.
“Ignore him!” I yell, waving the drink one more time. This time it slips from my hands and lands down the front of Remy. I look at him, then the empty cup, and turn to the bartender. “I need another one!”
The rest is a blur. An absolute blur.
Turns out, Remy had a good idea about chasing shots with Nyquil.
Eventually, I do make it back to my room. Remy’s sound asleep with his bottle, and I’m on the bathroom floor, praying for death or sleep, whichever makes the spinning stop. I’ll take either.
I do, however, crawl to Callie’s door and sit outside it, yelling for her to open it.
She does. I rush into the bathroom and vomit, and then lie on the cool tile floor, still wishing to die.
Staring at the ceiling, I scrub my hands over my face. “I can’t believe this.”
She chuckles, sitting next to me with a bottle of water. She hands it to me. “Me either.”
I lift my head, peeking one eye open. “I wore a raincoat.” And then it hits me. I didn’t the second time. My eyes widen. “But….”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” She swallows slowly, tears rolling down her face. “I’m on birth control. I swear.”
I lay my head back against the tile, my stare on the ceiling again.
“I can… have an abortion. Is that what you want? It’s my fault.”
I sit up the best I can and take her face in my hands. “I’d never ask you to do that, Callie. Ever.” I might be shitfaced, but I’m sober enough to know I can’t ask her to do something like that. Sweeping my finger over her heated cheek, I sigh. “I was there too. I didn’t wear one. I knew the consequences.”
Her eyes drop, her shoulders shaking. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.” I swallow over the tightness. “But if you’ll excuse me, I need to puke again.”
She leaves, and I spend the next three hours throwing up.
It’s sometimes hard to imagine what your life will be like. Never did I think this was going to happen. It’s like a game.
Three periods deciding my fate.
Every time a new play presents itself, I think, can I make this shot?
Now I’m not so sure.
Now there’s one period deciding the rest of my life. Can I make this shot that impacts not only the two of us but another player into the mix?
I never saw this coming. It’s like a check to the head.