9. Seventeen years old #3
By the time we reach my house, she’s practically dozing. I set her down gently, unlocking the front door as Crunchie pads over to investigate.
“My favourite boy,” Kath coos, immediately crouching to let him lick her hands.
I press a finger to my lips and gesture upstairs, where my parents are sleeping. Her eyes widen in comical realization, and she dramatically mimes zipping her lips shut.
Shaking my head, I lead her into the kitchen, filling a glass with water and handing it to her. She drains the entire thing in record time, so I pour her another and set out a pack of paracetamol.
“Thanks,” she whispers, as if that makes up for the fact that she’s already banged two drawers and nearly taken out a chair. She looks slightly more like her usual self. Her cheeks are less pale, and she’s smiling again.
“Any time.” I lean against the counter. “Though really, I’m just looking out for myself. I’m the one who has to deal with your bad mood tomorrow when you realise how hung-over you are.”
She narrows her eyes at me over the rim of her glass. “Such a gallant knight.”
“Alright, you. None of that cheek. Who carried you home? Who got you water?”
This version of drunk Kath—the teasing, slightly mischievous one—is much better than the dizzy, lost one from earlier.
She grins. “Fine, fine. You win.”
Then, with zero hesitation—“But to prove yourself, you have to carry me upstairs too.”
I let out a long sigh and turn so she can jump on my back again.
The stairs feel a tad treacherous with her clinging to me, but I manage. Maybe this is what all those dryland sessions are for. Who needs weight training when you can just haul your drunk best friend up a flight of stairs?
I drop her onto the bed before heading to the bathroom, running a toothbrush over my teeth and splashing cold water on my face.
My reflection stares back at me. I’ve never really been drunk, I realise.
Not properly. Too much training, too many early mornings.
Maybe that one night after the Olympics—but that didn’t end well.
And even when I do go to parties, I leave early, sober, always thinking about my next session.
The sacrifices add up. Sometimes they feel overwhelming.
But my coach was right. Distractions don’t win you medals.
But no distractions also means no fun, a traitorous voice in my head says.
I shake off the thought. It’s midnight on a Saturday—I don’t need to be analysing my life choices right now. Besides, I love swimming. It’s the only place I ever feel completely like myself. The only place where the noise quiets.
When I get back to my room, Kath’s sprawled across my bed, already half-asleep in one of my T-shirts.
“Teeth.” I nudge her up and steer her towards the bathroom.
She groans, “I’m tired.”
Swamped in my shirt, she looks almost like she did when we were thirteen—except I definitely don’t remember her bra ending up on my floor back then.
I shut that thought down immediately.
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head and guiding her towards the door. “I promise you’ll feel better in the morning.”
I unfold the futon, tossing a pillow and sleeping bag onto it.
Kath's undone her braid when she comes back, her hair falling in messy waves around her face. I wait for her to slide under her blanket before I switch off the light. The darkness settles around us, the faint glow from the streetlights seeping in through the curtains.
A minute passes in silence before I whisper, “How are you feeling?”
Kath shifts. “My head’s spinning a bit. How much did I drink?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I lost track of you for a bit. I think Bobbie was giving you drinks.”
Kath hums, rolling onto her side to face me, brushing her hair back from her face. “Were you with Molly?”
I pause, surprised. I didn’t even know Kath knew Molly that well. “No.” Then, after a beat, “Well, maybe at the beginning of the night. But mostly, I was talking to Josh and Ben.”
She nods like she’s filing that information away. “She has a huge crush on you, you know.”
“Oh.” That catches me off guard. “Well, I didn’t know that.” I peer at her through the darkness. A few moments pass before I finally ask the question that’s been weighing on my mind since earlier.
“Does Bobbie ever make you unhappy?”
She blinks sleepily at me. “What?” she murmurs around a yawn.
I hesitate, then clarify, “Well… you mentioned he can be a bit pressurising.”
“Huh. Did I?”
“Yeah you did.”
She frowns slightly, like she’s trying to remember our conversation. “Everything’s fine. Really, Sam.”
My stomach sinks. It’s not a complete answer.
Before I can say anything else, she shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “Anyway, I’m tired. We should sleep.”
I don’t push. Not now. Still, I hesitate before whispering, “You know you can tell me anything, right?”
She turns just enough to look at me. “Of course. Pinky promise.”
It’s a little reassuring. But then she yawns again, rolling back over, and within minutes, I hear the soft sound of her breathing evening out.
She’s already asleep.