Page 23 of Rowdy Boy

Since I’m purposely avoiding eye contact with my best friend, his embrace takes me by surprise. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, and one of his palms cups the back of my head. The way he pulls me in and holds me is everything I didn’t know I needed.

I choke back a sob, still too wrecked and on edge to completely break down. I don’t want to talk about it or admit to him what happened tonight. If I break down, I might never be whole again. If I give in now, I might as well give up forever.

Rhett says nothing, but he doesn’t let me go. There aren’t words for moments like this. Everything I need to know, he makes sure I feel. And fuck, do I feel it. Maybe it’s the highs and lows of this horrifically shitty day finally catching up to me. Or maybe it’s just the foreign feeling of his acceptance juxtaposed with how my family treats me.

Seconds tick into a minute, and then another. He’s not holding me because he needs this hug—that’s for sure. As much as I crave his comfort, I’m relieved when he finally pulls away.

“You—and my shirt—smell like puke,” he deadpans.

I shake my head and laugh. “I can’t drive,” I admit as I hand over my keys.

“I figured. But there’s no fucking way I’m taking you back to his house tonight. You’re coming home with me.”

Tori is sitting cross-legged inside Rhett’s walk-in shower, picking apart double-stuffed Oreos and smashing together the cream-coated sides to create what she calls “quad babies.” I would be more amused if I wasn’t once again face-down in the toilet.

Rhett crouches beside me, his steady hand on my back. He keeps offering me sips of blue Gatorade, but every time I take a drink, my body rejects the intrusion and goes back to purging. I thought for sure I had emptied my stomach at The Grille. My gut obviously has other ideas.

“How can you sit there and eat cookies while I’m actively puking three feet away from you?” I manage to ask between spasms. I’m trying my damnedest to hold in the latest sip of Gatorade. Tori and Rhett keep exchanging concerned glances they think I don’t see. I’m worried they’ll insist I go to the hospital soon if I can’t keep anything down.

My blood-alcohol level has to be pushing .2 percent, even after all the puking. I honestly would benefit from some medical help. But I doubt if anyone in the ER is going to believe me when I tell them my dad forced me to drink twenty-four ounces of gin tonight.

“Easy,” Tori says with a shrug. She twists open another cookie and scowls… the cream didn’t split cleanly apart on that one, so she passes the reject over my head to Rhett. “My mom did two rounds of chemo before they switched her to palliative care. She puked around the clock for days both times. I didn’t want to be away from her, so I just learned to live with it.”

The somber mood darkens further with her admission. She didn’t say it to make me feel bad. She’s lectured me about facing grief head-on enough that I know she doesn’t shy away from talking about things like this. But fuck if that doesn’t put my issues with Joe into perspective.

“Listen, bro. If you can’t keep these next few sips down…”

I lift my head too fast and make myself dizzy. He’s concerned, I get it. I know I have to break this cycle. There’s just no fucking way I’m prepared to talk about what happened with anyone except the people in this bathroom. I can’t. The actual telling… the inevitable fallout. I won’t survive it. I’ll do anything to not go to the hospital right now.

“I’m fine,” I insist resolutely.

Rhett cocks one eyebrow and hits me with an unamused glower.

“I’llbefine,” I amend. “Give me one of those,” I tell Tori, holding out my hand while I keep the other firmly planted on the toilet for balance.

She gives me a wary look, then reluctantly hands me her latest cookie creation. “Please don’t waste one of my quad-babies.”

I smirk in anticipation of how Rhett’s gonna react to what I say next. “I wouldn’t dream of it,baby.” He stiffens beside me, but I don’t bother looking his way.

Instead, I pop the cookie in my mouth, go through the motions of chewing and swallowing, then force myself to sit back and lean against the wall. I refuse to get sick again. Mind over matter. Or in this case, brain over stomach.

Rhett moves his hand from my back to my shoulder. Tori scoots herself halfway out of the shower and rests her head on my other arm.

“We’re okay,” she whispers.

It’s become our mantra today. I don’t know if it’s actually true, but it makes me feel better. I glance at Rhett, then back at Tori, before offering up the only truth I can muster.

“I’m okay when I’m with you.”

Chapter 11

Mycellvibratesonthe windowsill beside me. Courtney’s been blowing up my phone for the last few days, but I don’t bother answering. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to see anyone.

I blow smoke through the window and hold the joint as close to the screen as I dare to dissipate the smell. Prince Joey has football two-a-days this week, and my dad rarely comes up to this side of the house, so I should be okay. As long as I don’t melt a hole in the window screen. Or die of hunger pangs.

It’s a strange sensation, being trapped in a prison without walls. It’s not just the way he lords over this house that affects me. I see him every time I close my eyes. His disgust. His disappointment. He’s everywhere. Not just around me, fucking inside me. I couldn’t escape it if I tried.

I rest my forehead on the window frame and drag in another deep inhale. Getting high probably isn’t the smartest move. Joe’s been working from home for the last few days. I’ve been too terrified to leave the sanctuary of my room, so I haven’t eaten in over forty-eight hours. The munchies aren’t going to serve me well. But at least the hunger pangs are gone for now.