Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Rowan
I must come across as miserable at work, no matter how hard I’ve been trying to keep my head down, because one of my coworkers invited me to a party tonight.
I must actually be miserable, because I accepted her invitation, and now I’m walking up to the door of a condo I’ve never been to before, to walk into a party filled with people I really don’t know.
I don’t really have friends; people my age are usually interested in being wild and taking risks, if they’re not the group that goes to the gym twice a day every day. I just don’t fit in with them, and there isn’t room for my illness in their little groups.
Even with that in mind, I’m excited about tonight.
This is the first not-work-related party I’ve ever been to, and the girl who invited me seems really nice.
I think this is her condo, but I’m not entirely sure.
I just know she was really excited when she told me to come, and that was the tipping point for me.
All it took was someone acting like they cared that I showed up.
God, that’s pathetic.
The inside of the condo is eclectic, clearly thrown together by a group of early-twenty-somethings making a mish-mash of furniture they either brought with them or found somewhere cheap, and the whole condo smells like vanilla and cinnamon, courtesy of several candles burning throughout the living room.
There’s a massive, clear storage tub on the kitchen counter, filled with blue liquid and an array of fruit slices, and people walk over to it with a big soup ladle, scooping some out and dumping it into their plastic cups. Cups like the ones Dad uses.
“You made it!”
The girl from work runs over to me, a cup full of blue booze-soup in one hand, the other raised over her head in excitement.
Her cropped sweater lifts to expose her pierced belly button, and I shudder, thinking about how much that must have hurt.
I only have my earlobes pierced, and I think I’m probably just fine with that.
“Hi, Mariah,” I say, trying to cover my nerves with a smile. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Girl, of course! I’ve been wanting to get together for so long. Want a drink?”
“I’m good with just water,” I tell her.
One thing I can appreciate about my generation is that, at least from where I’ve been standing, they seem a lot better at accepting the word ‘no’ when I tell them I don’t drink.
It always seems to be the older groups who push it on me or wonder why, what must be wrong with me to not want to get all liquored up at any given moment.
I already feel a little more comfortable, not feeling like I have to lie or make up an excuse to not have a cup of that awful looking blue crap in my hand.
I make my way around the party, taking in the different people in attendance – some already practically swallowing each other’s faces, a few sitting on the couch, others dancing in a corner to the hip-hop music playing over the bluetooth speaker.
Butts and waists bounce and gyrate to the music; some in the air, and others directly onto the crotches of someone standing behind them.
I decide to join the couch-sitters, both because I want to claim a spot in case I start feeling bad, and because I see Emmett among them. We may not be besties, but he’s a safe familiar face, and I’ll take it.
“So anyway,” one of the guys in the group says, “she’s riding me and my phone rings. It’s my girl.”
My lip curls in not-so-subtle disgust as he recounts – in detail - his phone call with the girlfriend he was actively cheating on, and I see Emmett throwing me an apologetic cringe, like this is one of his friends and he actually listens to this crap on a regular basis.
Maybe I’m glad that date went so poorly.
Do all men talk about their sexual experiences like this?
I would hate to have wound up as cheap party conversation.
The couch group isn’t for me. I decide to move along to the kitchen, where I find Mariah cutting up more fruit to toss into the booze-soup, and I take the spot next to her, pick up a knife and a lemon, and start cutting.
“Do you do these a lot?” I ask.
“Uh-huh! Every weekend. Sometimes during the week, too, but don’t tell Davis. He’d kill me if he knew I was coming to work hungover.”
“What does that…feel like?”
She stops slicing, taking a second to consider the question. “A hangover? What, have you, like, never drank before?”
I shake my head. “Not once.”
“Well,” she tells me as she balls her black hair into a bun on top of her head, wrapping an elastic around a couple of times to secure it in place, “if you ever want to, this is a safe group to do it with. I’d babysit you and all.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never even been to one of these before.”
“Girl. Seriously?”
I nod.
“I like, want you to offer you a drink again, but not in a pushy way, you know?”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “I get it. I know, I’m a weirdo.”
It isn’t like I’ve never wondered what the appeal of it was. Why so many people do it and seem to have such a great time when they do. I’ve always been curious. Just terrified that something would happen to me or I’d wind up like my dad, having one sip and never stopping, like a hostile takeover.
I wonder if I would even know - if he knew - that he’d been invaded.
Part of me wants to rebel, to be anyone but the stupid girl who was in the car with Colt Fowler that night.
To be anyone but the girl who walks in the door to a broken home, working hard so she can run away with her sister because their dad has become a monster.
Just a part of me. But that part is so loud lately.
To shut it off for a while, or just turn down the screaming volume, would be such a relief.
Before I can shake the thought away, I find myself digging through a cooler and pulling out a can of some spiked lemonade seltzer drink.
“Is this any good?” I ask Mariah, showing her the label.
“Oooo, yes!” She squeals. “Oh, gimme one, too, will you?”
I grab another and hand it to her, and we crack the cans open at the same time. She taps the top of hers against my can with a metallic thunk.
“Here’s to your first drink, girl!”
I laugh and tip the can to my mouth, taking just a small sip.
I brace myself as I swallow, expecting it to burn or taste like sewage and acid, but it’s actually really sweet, like a real lemonade you would get from a stand during summer, just fizzier.
I take a few more sips of it before setting it down to return to the task of fruit slicing.
“Oooo, she likes it!” Mariah sings, shimmying in her seat. She holds out her hand, smacking her fingers against her palm. “Keys please.”
“Oh, right.”
I fish my car keys from my bag and set them in her hand, and she then drops them into a big bowl filled with the keys of what I can assume is everyone in attendance who is drinking tonight.
An hour later, I’ve had four of these little cans, and my fingers and nose feel just as fizzy as the drinks do going down.
There’s a warmth settled in my chest and the world moves just a little bit slower.
It’s an interesting feeling, like I’m not actually standing here, watching people dance in front of me.
It’s more like I’m floating on a cloud somewhere in the room, but my body is down on the ground, acting on its own free will.
After throwing my empty can away, I reach down to the cooler and lose my footing, stumbling a little. I let out a giggle as I reach into the icy abyss for another drink and a warm hand wraps around my upper arm, guiding me to a standing position.
“Hey, you alright?” Emmett asks.
I give him a few slow nods and giggle again. “Emmett! I’m great! How are you?”
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
I lean in and whisper, like I’m letting him in on some big secret. “I’m not that girl anymore.”
“Oh?” He quirks a brow. “Why’s that?”
I motion with my finger for him to come closer, and he humors me, leaning in so his ear is right in front of my lips.
“That girl was stupid. She fell for someone who just wanted to use her.” Concern takes over his features when he pulls back from me, and I slap a hand against his chest. “Not you.”
“Lead with that next time,” he laughs as he puts a hand against my back and inclines his head toward my drink. “How many of those have you had?”
“I dunno, a couple,” I tell him. “They’re really good!”
“Let’s maybe maybe make that the last one, huh?”
“Are we friends?” I ask him, cracking open the top of the can.
“Yeah,” he says, furrowing his brow. “Yeah, of course we’re friends.”
“Cool.”
Is it weird to be friends with someone whose dad has had his tongue in your mouth? My friend count might go back down to one, if so. Even if it’s been exactly a week since it happened. God, has it really already been a week? Why can I still taste him on my lips?
Halfway through my drink, I make myself cozy on the couch. Thankfully, the raunchy story time seems to be over, replaced by a game of what I think is poker. Some kind of card game, where the guys around the table are throwing down actual cash as bets.
I watch them for a while, cheering every time someone gets to scoop the giant pile of money into their lap. The cheater from earlier seems to be losing, because he’s in a really foul mood, and that makes me happy. I bet your girlfriend manifested that, jerk.
Mariah’s arms wrap around my neck and her sweet perfume floods my nostrils. She plops down next to me, squishing herself between my legs and the arm of the couch.
“Having fun, girly?”
I nod my head enthusiastically.
“Pizza will be here in ten minutes if you want some.”
“Oh god, yes,” I groan.
She grabs my hand and drags me toward the kitchen, my feet betraying me every step of the way as I fumble behind her.
There are probably ten people crowding around the kitchen, waiting for their hero to bring the cheesy, bready sustenance to save them all.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel the same way.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I’d gotten until she said the word ‘pizza.’
I look toward the front door, willing the bell to ring just like everyone else is, and see Emmett pressing a girl up against the wall, kissing her like her tongue is made of oxygen and he can’t breathe without it.
“Do people have sex at these?” I ask no one in particular, the memory of Colt’s taste flooding my tongue.
A few people laugh, hard enough to tell me I just asked a really stupid question with a really obvious answer. Mariah just grimaces at me and nods, like she’s just as horrified by the idea as I am.
The doorbell rings and the poor delivery girl is practically ambushed by partygoers wanting their own pizza from the stack in her hands.
I wait by the island counter as all of the pies make their way over, and stack two slices onto a paper plate after everyone’s grabbed their own, then stuff my face with the greasy, cheesy goodness.
When everyone is fed and filing out either in rideshares or with their designated drivers, I pull up a blanket on the couch and make myself at home, settling in and watching as the room tilts and twirls around me, until it all goes dark.