Chapter 4
FOUR
Emmett
A week of dreamless sleep, more lies to my dad, and days that I don’t remember pass by me like molasses, and by the end of it, I’ve run out of liquor.
My house is a disaster area; trash is littered in a wide orbit around the couch, where I’ve practically lived for the past eight days.
Old food is left uneaten and strewn across the coffee table next to empty cans and bottles, which I just brush off over the side any time I need the space to set something new down.
I haven’t checked my emails or done anything regarding work at all, other than texting to let Dad know that I’m ‘still sick’ and need more time.
Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to work or school at this point.
None of that feels like it matters anymore, in the grand scheme of things.
I just can’t give a shit about any of it.
My doorbell rings out, singing its loud, too-long song before I open the door and greet the person on the other side.
Okay, greet is a loose term; I offer her a tight smile and show her my ID before grabbing the bag from her arms, then I kick the door shut behind me without a single word.
I tip her generously through the app, because it’s important to always be a gentleman, but that’s about as far as I’m willing to push any effort into being one right now.
As I unload the fresh supply of booze conveniently delivered right to my front door, I crack open a fresh bottle and bring it to my mouth to suck it down.
I’ve spent the past eight days trying to figure out what exactly it is that I’m feeling, while simultaneously trying not to feel any of it at all.
I still can’t put a name to it; the only thing I know is that if I stop drinking I start thinking, and when I start thinking, my eyes start to burn and my chest feels like a semi truck has rolled right over top of it and then I can’t fucking breathe.
I’m not the guy who gets his confidence shaken, the guy who wonders if he’s good enough or if he’s done enough or if he’s worthy of what life gives him. I’ve been down plenty of times; I’m used to that and I’ve mastered the art of hiding it. I’ve never felt like this.
Right now, my mind is like a foreign planet with screeching voices that aren’t even my own swirling around inside, drowning out the voice that once lived there and replacing his message with their own:
You weren’t worth sticking around for.
Your own mother couldn’t love you.
You’re hiding like a coward.
Your father would be so disappointed in you.
You’re letting everyone down.
The messages play on repeat, screaming in my ear over and over again until I drown them.
·
Another week passes of my body glued to the couch with either a bottle or a can in my hand, frozen pizza and microwave chicken nuggets the only food that I pick at, before I decide that I can’t put off leaving the house any longer and that the small deliveries of the things I need just aren’t going to cut it.
After throwing on a fresh shirt and pulling a baseball cap backward over my head, I grab my keys and head for the closest superstore in an attempt to get everything that I need in one go and get back to the dark little hole that I’ve carved out for myself in my living room.
Funny name for that, isn’t it, living room? I don’t think I’m doing much living in there lately. I’m pretty sure that I haven’t even said more than ten words out loud over the past two weeks, and the only people I’ve spoken to or seen at all are those behind the screen of my TV.
Walking into the store, I pull out my phone to send my dad a text and ask if he needs me to pick something up. If I don’t send him signs that I’m still alive, he’ll just show up at my house, and I really don’t want him to do that.
I’m sure he knows something is going on; I’ve been ‘sick’ for probably too long, but he’s giving me space and I’m grateful for that. I don’t want him to see this. I don’t want any of them to know about any of this.
I’m almost certain that I hear a few quick shutters of a camera from somewhere nearby, but I pull all of my focus into being present enough to find the things that I need, pushing my way through the hangover creeping in at the edges of my brain and the horrible voices swirling around in my head until I slam right into a hard wall of someone’s body and I stagger backward.
Bringing my gaze up from the ground, I’m met with a man maybe an inch taller than me, built wide and strong. If he wanted to, he could take up half of the damn aisle.
Nash Montgomery.
What the hell is he doing here?
“Excuse you, asshole,” he grumbles as he turns to face me. “Ohh. The Fowler kid, right?”
“Yup. That’d be me.”
“You look like shit, kid,” he chuckles and reaches past me to grab something off of a shelf. “Smell like shit, too. Daddy kick you out of the business because you couldn’t play with the big boys?”
“Sure, why not,” I mutter, squeezing past his brawny frame.
“That’s why,” he comments. “You’ve got no fire. It makes you look weak.”
He gives me a smirk and turns away from me to make his way through the aisle, and I take a second to recenter myself so I can finish up and focus on getting what I need and getting the hell out of the store.
You look weak.
The sentence plays through my mind alongside all the others as I plod through the aisles and try to get everything off of the list, which also unfortunately only exists in my mind, distorted by the thoughts that I can’t seem to push away.
Tissues. Pathetic loser. Beer. Coward. Pizzas. Disappointment.
Any other time, I would have stood my ground and said something to him. I’ve never had a problem dishing it out and putting someone in their place. In fact, I’ve always been pretty damn good at that.
Maybe Nash is right. Maybe I don’t just look weak. Maybe I am weak now.
·
There are a handful of fraternity houses around my school, a couple of which have loud, crazy parties almost every night.
I’ve seen them start as early as three in the afternoon – or maybe that’s when they were ending.
I don’t live particularly close to campus, but tonight, I don’t mind driving the thirty-some minutes to get to one of them.
I’ve never spoken to any of the kids in those frats, and I really don’t intend to change that tonight.
I stop my car on the corner of the street and head down the sidewalk on foot, passing by all of the houses and trying to decide which one looks the most like a distraction, finally choosing a three-story Greek revival with banners and streamers hanging all along the front of it.
It looks like they’ve been there for a while, rather than replaced every time that they host something.
A medium-height guy stands at the door as if he’s trying to play bouncer, looking maybe twenty years old.
He might be older, but his polo shirt and bermuda short combo makes him look a little young.
I approach anyway, honestly expecting him to stop me or turn me away or find some other way to make things difficult.
Instead, he throws me a, “What’s up, dude!” Complete with the ‘rock on’ devil horns as I offer him a tight-lipped smile and slide past him into the house.
It would be a massive open space inside if it weren’t filled with so many people. One of those spaces that would verge on creepy if it weren’t jam packed at all times; too much room for skeletons to come crawling out of its many, many closets.
The entire house smells like multiple scents of the same cheap body spray brand have been poured out into the carpets in anticipation of their guests arriving for the night; probably to cover up the smell of vomit from the party that they probably hosted last night, and the one before that.
Despite the offensive sting in my nose from the smell, I shove my way through to the kitchen, which is fully stocked with three different kegs, a couple of plastic bins filled with jungle juice, and a plethora of assorted bottles spread out on the counters.
I reach for one of the brightly-colored plastic cups next to a giant tub of jungle juice and dunk it in, filling it it to the brim with fruit, a few ice cubes, and god knows what other kind of crap they threw in there to make the vibrant red concoction.
I bring the cup to my mouth and quickly chug the drink down before refilling it and repeating the process until I reach a nice, warm buzz.
It’s sickeningly sweet and nearing room temperature despite the few chunks of ice still floating around in it, but it’ll get the job done.
Between the alcohol buzzing in my mind, the noise of the conversations and terrible singing happening all around me, and the playlist of top forties blasting over the speaker system, the screaming in my mind has actually gone quiet.
I heave a sigh of relief and dive full force into the party, playing a few rounds of flip cup, and I eventually find a table to start up a quick game of beer pong.
I sidle up next to one of the players and exchange a quick smile with him to let him know that I’m joining the game as I pluck the ping pong ball from the table and turn it over a few times in my fingers.
I gently toss it overhand to send it soaring over the table and into one of the plastic cups in the back row, filled with beer.
While one of the players on the opposite end of the table picks up the cup to chug down the warm brew, the other sends the ball back to our side and sinks it into a cup at the center of our layout.
Without waiting for my teammate to offer, I pull the cup from the group and suck down the beer in a couple of seconds.
This process repeats over and over again, with cups disappearing from the table as they’re consumed, each shot taking longer and longer to hit as the amount of targets decreases.
I consider throwing the game just to finish the drinks, but I decide against it.
This is the most fun I’ve had in two weeks; it’s nice to actually feel something good.
Once the game has ended, I pass through the large living room space to find a group of people huddled together on the couch; mostly girls, with a couple of guys sprinkled in between them.
I lock eyes with one of the women, the one with her hair cut short just below her chin, and a joint in her hand.
When she gives me a small smirk, I incline my head toward the hallway, silently inviting her to come with me; I need to feel more.
I figure that maybe an orgasm will do the trick.
I’ve already turned to walk for the stairs when she excuses herself from her friends and hops to her feet to stumble after me.
“Bathroom,” I tell her. The first word I’ve spoken since my run-in with that Montgomery prick this morning. Afternoon. Some point today, I don’t fucking know anymore.
The two of us quickly wobble up the stairs in hopes that one of the bathrooms is left unoccupied. When we find one, we slide inside and I lock the door behind us while she takes a puff from her joint, which fills the room with its bitter, earthy smell.
I love it.
I set my cup down on the counter and grab her face in both hands as I pull her lips to mine and dive into her with my tongue, earning a soft moan in response.
My hands find their way around her thighs and I hoist her up onto the counter, her legs resting on either side of me.
“You don’t waste any time,” she giggles, biting down on her lip with a grin.
I don’t bother to respond as I reach up under her skirt and pull her thong down her legs, discarding it onto the floor at my feet.
It doesn’t take long for me to drop my jeans, and it’s even less time before she’s reaching for my dick.
I can’t tell if she’s trying to stroke it or pull me closer to her, so I opt for the latter and slide inside of her with a moan, bracing one hand on the mirror behind her head to keep myself steady.
I’ve never had sex with someone without wearing a condom. From my first time at sixteen all the way up until now, I’ve been meticulous about it, and I’ve had a backup plan in case one ever broke; a plan which definitely did not involve staying inside of her.
She’s warm and wet and feels like she’s made of silk. I bury the rest of my cock inside of her so that not a single millimeter of it misses out on this feeling.
As I thrust into her, I pull the joint from between her fingers and bring it to my lips, pulling in a deep lungful of the bitter smoke. I hold it as long as I can stand before grabbing her jaw and putting my mouth on hers, forcing the smoke from my own lungs into hers.
“Oh, shit,” I pant, buried deep inside of her.
Wow, I’m up to three whole words. I’m downright chatty tonight.
The world starts to move in a blurry slow motion around me as the pot meets the alcohol already in my system.
Pleasure shoots through my spine and I cum inside of her with a loud groan; It’s like she’s not even here anymore until I hear her cry out just before she buries her face into my shoulder while she comes.
“Thanks,” I tell her as we part ways and I stuff my cock back into my boxer briefs, pulling my pants back up to fasten them around my hips.
“Sure,” she smiles. “You should call me sometime, do you want my number?”
“Won’t use it,” I shrug as I unlock the door and slip outside. “Sorry.”
That was mean. I’m fully aware that that was probably bordering on cruel. I heard it the second that it came out of my mouth, but I couldn’t stop myself.
It’s like it’s not even me talking, anymore.
I stop on the stairs to pull out my phone and order an Uber to take me home. Twenty-five years old, and I finally went to my first frat party. I’m pretty sure that I had the full experience, aside from throwing up in the pool, but someone else probably covered that part for me.
Now, I just want to get home before the guilt and the shame set in.