Now
My head is buried in a bush as I puke up the contents of my stomach.
Every time I think it’s over, more comes up. The stench of vomit and tequila burns my throat, clogs my nose, stings my eyes. I drank a lot. Too much. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here.
Cool fingers brush my neck, pulling my hair back from my face. “I’ve got you,” says a female voice I vaguely recognize.
I puke again, hands braced against my knees. I start to cry.
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. You just drank too much. It’s all going to be fine. Let me get Wes, okay? Ben! Can you get Wes? Hurry.”
I puke again. Bile now. My stomach is empty, but my body’s not registering.
Footsteps. Concerned voices. New hands against my neck, soothing.
“I’m here, Ivy,” Wes murmurs. “I’m here.” He rubs circles over my back. “Fuck, baby. I didn’t think you drank that much.”
I can’t answer, too busy catching my breath. I wait for the next round of nausea to hit, but it never comes, and I sink to the ground. Wes crouches next to me. I can’t focus on him. Everything’s spinning.
“Don’t cry,” he whispers, and his warm hand brushes against my cheek. “It kills me when you cry. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re gonna go back to the house, alright?”
I must nod because next thing I know, Wes is helping me stand and we’re walking. My feet won’t coordinate, though, stumbling all over each other, and eventually he sweeps me up into his arms. He cradles me against his chest. He keeps walking.
The ceiling spins as we enter the house.
I bury my face against his shoulder. My stomach cramps.
There’s a reason I shouldn’t be in here, but I can’t grasp it.
I can’t grasp the reason. Only the feeling.
Dread. It stabs me through the heart, and I cry into Wes’s neck.
It’s warm and smells nice, and I shouldn’t be crying. But I can’t get past the bad feeling.
I might be sick again.
“We’re almost to the bedroom,” he murmurs. “Then you can be sick.”
“I’ll get her water,” says the woman. “She needs to hydrate.”
“Thanks, Chloe.”
I end up with my head in the toilet, my stomach convulsing. As soon as I think the nausea’s over, my body cramps and I’m heaving again, even though there’s nothing left.
At some point, I end up in bed, a cool washcloth on my head, a beautiful man urging me to drink water. “Tiny sips, there you go.”
I do it even though I don’t want to, and when he praises me, I start to cry again. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve anything.
I just want to disappear.