Chapter 9 #3
Benjamin doesn’t say anything. Not a single thing. He just keeps alternating between holding my hair, dabbing my neck, and keeping me steady.
I want to die. Preferably now. Right in this spot. I hate him for being here. I hate me for being this drunk. I’ll never be able to look at him again. If he’s been smug before, I can only imagine what he will be like after this. I hate my life.
“You feeling better?” His voice is low and too close.
“Yeah. You can go now. Thank you.” My voice is weak.
He doesn’t respond, and he doesn't leave. I vomit again. Why have any sort of dignity left? Slowly, the nausea fades, and my stomach eventually stops twisting. I take long, deep breaths, forcing the last sickness away, leaving me feeling painfully sober.
I rise slowly, feeling his eyes on me all the time. He must think I’m so disgusting. And immature. Is it normal for twenty-nine-year-olds to drink until they vomit?
“Are you feeling okay?”
I adjust my skirt, still not looking at him. “Yes.” I clear my throat. “I just . . .” I walk over to the sink, washing both my hands and my mouth. Does he combust if I close my eyes? No. Nope. Unfortunately, not.
“You know, if you wanted out of the game, you could’ve just said so.”
I glare at him. “Let’s go out and finish the game, shall we?” I say and head for the door. He stops me halfway, one hand on my elbow. My skin tingles where his fingers touch me.
“The game can wait. I’m kind of tired. Think it’s time to head home.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Scared of losing, Reyes?”
His eyes sparkle in the bad lighting. “Never. I’ll play you again, Collins. Any day.”
I watch him for a moment before I turn for the door again.
This time he lets me. Thankfully, no one notices us leaving the restroom together.
I don’t want this town to think I’m some kind of homewrecker, and I don’t want to have to explain to anyone what just happened.
I glance quickly at Benjamin walking beside me.
Will he tell anyone? Shit, of course he will.
This will be a funny story for him to tell his friends or anyone who wants to listen.
I want to get out of here. Go back to Liz’s house and book a ticket home. I reach our table just as Iris steps off the stage. She smiles and throws her arms around me. “June, I’m so glad you’re here.”
I do my best to return the smile. “Me, too. You were amazing up there.”
Her smile grows. “I was?”
“Yes.”
She squeaks and hugs me harder. “I’m drunk,” she whispers matter-of-factly.
I snort a little laugh at this. “Me, too.”
She releases me with a (drunk) beam. “You’re heading home?”
“Yeah, I think I will. Thank you for bringing me, I had the best night.”
She looks happy. “You’re part of the gang now.”
I force a smile as I take a step back, not sure how that declaration makes me feel.
“I’ll drive you home,” Austin says and stands from the table.
“Oh, no, you do—”
“It’s cool, I’ll take her.”
I swing around and find Benjamin, casually standing behind me with his hands in his pockets. I assumed he went back to his friends. Has he been here this whole time?
“No, I’ll do it,” Austin insists, taking a step forward.
Benjamin’s smile is indulgent when he replies. “It’s okay, man. I’ll give June a ride home. She’s already agreed to it.”
I have? Benjamin gives me a look.
“You ready?”
“Eh . . .” is all I manage before he places a hand at the small of my back and steers me out of here. On our way, he nods at Jake who returns the motion with an inscrutable expression on his handsome face.
Confused but suddenly completely sober, I whirl around as soon as we’re outside, and the fresh air hits me.
“I can get home by myself,” I say, picking up my phone.
“There are no Ubers here,” Benjamin says, reading my mind.
“I’ll call a cab.”
“At this time? Good luck.”
“Then I’ll walk.”
“In those shoes?”
I take them off. Benjamin’s mouth quirks. God, he’s arrogant. I start walking, shoes in hand and a little wobbly. Not totally sober, then.
My feet already hurt, not used to walking without shoes. As a kid, I ran barefoot all the time, regardless of the surface, but that was years ago. Now, my feet are used to pedicures every four weeks and regular foot baths in my bathroom every other night.
“Wow, you really have no idea where you live, do you?”
I ignore him. The night is mild and as long as I don’t have to spend another minute of it with him, I don’t care about anything else.
“You know this will take forever, right? Especially since you’re walking in the complete opposite direction of your home.”
“It’s not my home.”
“Fine. Liz’s house.”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t care if you’ll be out walking all night because you’re too stubborn to accept a ride?”
“I won’t be out walking all night.”
“Yeah, you will. And your high-maintenance feet will be all messed up by sunrise. If not earlier. I guess they’re used to walking in ridiculous shoes like those.”
God, I hate him. Even more so when he disses my shoes. “Wow, you must have so many brain cells. And don’t talk about my feet. Or my shoes.”
“Why? Can they hear me?”
I snort. He really is the biggest idiot I have ever met. And I don’t care if I’m on my way to fucking Antarctica, as long as I don’t have to endure another minute in his company.
Another step and an extra sharp little stone digs its way into the softest part of my foot pad, making me want to scream. It takes all my willpower to swallow the pain and wordlessly blink away the tears. I hate this place. And I hate that I’m here when I shouldn’t be.
“Get in.”
I swivel around. How did I not hear him drive up next to me?
“Never.”
He sighs like he’s bored. “Collins. You’re limping.”
“No, I’m not.”
I definitely am.
“Get in,” he says again. I open my mouth to tell him some well-chosen words, but he’s faster. “There are some aggressive raccoons living around the bar.”
Bullshit. Raccoons aren’t aggressive.
“They attacked Gilda Hillenbaumer a couple of weeks ago—she’s still in a wheelchair.”
I glance at him. He’s lying. I know he is.
“Their teeth are like small Swiss army knives. You could hear Gilda’s scream all the way to the harbor at the other end of town.”
I’m not walking as fast anymore. Swiss army knives? Nah, he’s bluffing. But I flinch when something moves quickly in the bushes right next to me. And why is my heart racing? There’s not even anything there. I pick up my pace again. He’s messing with me.
A loud rustle in the dark makes me squeak and jump.
“Still saying no to that ride?”
I stop and glare at him. “Over my dead bo—” A new rustle, right next to my feet this time. I swear I even felt something furry touch my toes. I scream, run around his car, and throw myself inside. The smirk on his face, which he’s not even trying to hide, makes me want to hit him.
Without a word, he increases the speed. I avoid looking at him.
Instead, I rub my sore feet. His car is warm, and I’d never admit it out loud, but I enjoy not having to walk anymore.
I shoot him a quick glance. His profile is stupidly beautiful in the soft light.
His eyes focused on the road ahead of us.
“Isn’t your wife wondering where you are? ” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Nah. Isn’t your husband wondering where you are?”
My brows knit together. “I’m not married.”
“Boyfriend, then.”
“No boyfriend either, thank god.”
He shoots me an interested look. “Girlfriend?”
“Unfortunately, I’m straight. But I’m done with men.”
“Why?”
I’m so tired I could sleep. I close my eyes. This seat is so warm.
“Why?” he repeats and forces me back. I sigh sleepily and shift my position so I can rest my head against the window.
“Because men are boring. They never make me laugh.”
Did I just tell him that? Damn you, tiredness and alcohol! I think he replies with something, but I don’t know what because my eyelids are too heavy now.
I’m back in my childhood room. My dad sits on the edge of my bed.
He reads to me from my favorite book, Matilda, by Roald Dahl.
I love listening to his voice, it’s the safest sound I know.
My room smells like sweet pea from the small bouquet my mom has picked and put in a vase on my nightstand.
Through the open window next to my bed, I hear the cicadas sing.
I feel so happy. Today at school, Tom, the cutest boy I know, told me I smelled good. Like a peach, he said.
My dad’s voice trails off. He closes the book, kisses my forehead, and quietly sneaks for the door.
“Dad,” I whisper.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“How do you know you like someone?”
He stops. His voice is pensive and warm. “You want to spend every minute with that person. That’s the person who makes you the happiest. He or she feels like home.”
“Hm,” I answer.
“Is there anyone who makes you happy?”
“I think so. Tom. He told me I smelled like a peach.”
“Well, then Tom is a very lucky man.”
“He’s just six.”
Is Dad coughing or chuckling? “Nevertheless, the boy who gets to make you happy is the luckiest boy in the world.”
Wait, am I flying? A flying bed? That smells delicious. My head is resting on the most fantastic pillow ever. It’s firm and soft at the same time. I want to sleep on it forever.
But wait, something isn’t right . . . It takes all my willpower to squint one eye open.
Oh, hell no. “Are you . . . carrying me?” I mumble, sleepily and horrified.
Wow, I really am drunk. I try to free myself, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Maybe I’m not even trying. Who knows, I’m too tired to know what I’m doing.
“No.” His voice is low. Unbothered by the fact that he is carrying me.
“Put . . . me . . . down,” I order, half asleep, half aware. Why does he have to have strong arms that feel so good? Another waste.
“Soon,” he tells me. I want to protest. I want to tell him a whole lot of things, but I can’t. My brain is too slow. My eyes are too heavy. And he smells so good . . . Stop it.
He unlocks the door and is carrying me inside when I, in my sleepy fog, remember something. “Porch light . . . Margot . . .”
“You want me to turn it on?”
“Y . . . es.”
“Okay.”
And then I’m gone.