Page 6

Chapter 6

Blake

T he world feels heavy, almost as if gravity doubled overnight, but I know that’s not possible. Is it? A dull, relentless throb pounds behind my eyes, each one like a strike of a drum performed by our school’s marching band. The taste of stale beer and regret linger on my tongue, metallic and bitter.

I pry my eyes open, wincing as the pale morning light slices through the room like a blade. Fuck me, I forgot to close the blinds when I stumbled into the room last night. My only thought was making it to my bed without puking my guts up or breaking my neck.

The faintest sounds of people conversing in the hallway, a distant car horn, even the rustle of fabric from my movement feels like a personal assault, sharp and malicious. I go to swallow, but my mouth is so dry my tongue feels like it’s been replaced with sandpaper.

I sit up quickly and instantly regret the decision as a wave of nausea rolls through me, the room spinning in protest, and I fall back onto the bed. My limbs feel as if they're made of lead, my body stiff, and I wonder if I fought a battle in my sleep and lost. Does my opponent feel a quarter of the pain I do today?

The remnants of last night are a blur, laughter and music jumbled with the unmistakable haze of overindulgence. Yet, there’s a sense of relief, as if a slight weight has been lifted off my shoulders, but I’m not sure why. Why can’t I remember? I fight against the battle zone in my head to piece together the jumbled up pictures playing through my memory when it finally comes rushing back like a freight train.

I told Carter what happened that night. Fuck! I’m still alive. How the hell is that even possible?

A massive groan escapes me as I press my palms against my temples in a futile attempt to quiet the marching band competition in my head. Each breath I take feels labored, every movement an effort to perform. The only thing sharper than the physical discomfort is the creeping anxiety about what Carter’s going to do. Is he going to tell Chase?

A shrill buzzing from the alarm on my phone echoes through the room, wreaking havoc on my already fragile head, clawing at the last piece of calm that was present. I blindly reach out toward my nightstand, wanting to end the foul noise. Instead of grasping the phone, I end up sending it clattering to the floor. I’m praying I didn’t crack my screen— again ! My clumsiness not only makes my phone a casualty, but turns over a bottle of water and an open container of Tylenol, scattering tiny white pills across the carpet. And instead of silencing it, my fumbling knocks the clock off the edge, creating a symphony of plastic and persistent beeping as it clatters to the floor. “Damn it,” I mutter, my voice hoarse. My head throbs in protest as I lean over the side of the bed, ripping the alarm clock cord out of the outlet while fumbling to retrieve my phone, sighing in relief when I do, silencing the annoying sound.

I notice a folded piece of paper lying on the edge of the nightstand, miraculously untouched by the chaos. The handwriting on the front is familiar: Carter. My stomach churns—whether from the hangover or the sight of the note, I’m not sure. Any hope that last night had been a drunken dream is long gone. I reach for it, hesitating for a moment before unfolding it. Carter’s unmistakable scrawl greeting me.

Drink some water. Take the Tylenol. Talk to Chase.

In that order.

You need to tell him what happened. If you don’t, I will.

Either make it right with him and be a couple, or make sure he knows it’s over. You’re my best friend, like a brother, but he’s my blood and I’m not going to let you hurt him.

Also, don’t forget about practice. I set your alarm.

Carter

I crumple back into bed, clutching the note to my chest like it’s a lifeline. I was rash that night, I can admit it. But he wanted to keep us a secret and I couldn’t do that. I love him too much to hide in the shadows and pretend like he means nothing when he means the world. But how can I tell him how I betrayed him? Any inkling of a chance that we’d make it through our issues and come out happily on the other side is long gone. It dissipated when I fucked up that night.

Practice! Fuck me!

I’m not going to make it through the day. I don’t even want to get out of the bed, not to mention the room hasn’t stopped spinning and my legs feel like flimsy sticks. Coach Lein preaches about not drinking during the season and fuck if I don’t understand why now.

Drinking never leads to anything good. Christmas break proved that.

Come on, Blake. Get it together. Take the medicine, get a shower and some food to soak up the alcohol still sloshing around in the pit of your stomach .

If I miss a practice, I’ll be sitting on the bench and there’s no way in hell I’m going to let that happen. Then, when I have my head screwed on right and thinking properly, I’m going to devise a plan to spill my guts to Chase and pray that he doesn’t hate me. It needs to be me to tell him, not Carter.

I take hold of the comforter and toss it off of me. Sitting up, I swing my legs off the side of the bed at the same time, fighting to keep the vomit down that’s threatening to break free. I pause for a moment, my hands resting on the bed, as my toes move along the carpet. My head needs to calm before I attempt to stand or else me and the floor are going to be on a first name basis, up close and personal.

Sighing, I stand, my legs trembling beneath my weight. The world tilts, spinning violently, throwing me off balance. I close my eyes tightly, willing the dizziness to subside. Each breath is slow and deliberate as I wait for the nausea to pass. Gradually, the spinning slows, and I begin to feel steady, as if an invisible anchor has dropped, weighing me down.

When I finally open my eyes, the room is still, no longer a rocky amusement park ride and I take a cautious step forward, then another, repeating the process as I move across the room toward the ensuite bathroom, the promise of a hot shower pulling me onward.

As I step through the doorway, I flip the switch, wincing as the bright lights flicker on. My eyes draw upward toward the mirror and I catch my first glimpse of my haggard appearance. My hair is a ratted mess, half of the tendrils hanging loose from the hair tie. My eyes are bloodshot, with dark circles underneath them, my skin pale. I look like pure shit!

My clothes from last night hang on me like a grimy second skin, reeking faintly of alcohol and stale smoke. One by one, I peel the layers away, each piece landing on the tile floor with a lifeless thud, until I’m left bare.

Turning away, no longer wanting to see the sight reflecting back to me, I face the shower and step inside. I take hold of the knob, twisting it as far as I can go, not even caring that it’s cold when I step underneath it. I stand there, shivering, until steaming water cascades down my back, eliciting a hiss of relief. The water pounds comfortingly against my shoulders. I close my eyes, letting the warmth seep into my muscles, loosening the knots of tension.

Each droplet feels like a cleansing wave. Too bad it can’t wash away the mistakes I’ve made. I squirt some body wash in my hand, the minty smell a welcome contrast to the sour notes of regret that cling to me. Knowing I can’t hide in this fortitude of solace for long, I quickly spread the soap on my body, washing away what I can while coming to terms with what I can't.

I stand there long after the water has gone frigid, before finally twisting the knob off, plunging the bathroom into silence. While it’s a blessing to the pounding inside my skull, it only leaves room for my mind to race, dwelling on thoughts that only cause more pain.

Inhaling and blowing it out slowly, I step out of the shower, pulling the towel hanging on the rack off. I take my time, drying every inch of my body before stepping over to the sink and brushing my teeth, hoping like hell it eradicates the taste of cardboard and stale beer in my mouth.

I make a mental list for the day: get dressed, eat, then go to practice.

Those are the three main things I need to do. In that order. Chase. My sweet baby, I need to work on how to handle the situation with him. I have a mountain of explaining and a hell of a lot more groveling than that to do. Now that I’ve had time to think, I know I’m more at fault than him. I sometimes forget what it’s like to come out as bisexual to the world—the vulnerability, the uncertainty that can come with it. Everyone’s experience is different. Mine was easy, something I embraced with grace and confidence. But that doesn’t mean it’s the same for Chase. I didn’t take the time to truly understand or respect that. I know I need to finish getting ready, I can’t keep putting it off. The only way I’m going to get anything done is if I leave this room. Hiding isn’t going to accomplish shit. God, just let me make it through the day.