Broken Compass

I spot a bottle of whiskey on the table with the drinks and wince, nausea rolling in my stomach. Dad’s favorite drink. Sticking my cigarette in my mouth, I move past the whiskey and grab a bottle of tequila.

Might as well go all in. Can’t be any worse than it already is, can it?

Wait, don’t answer that. Like I said, I don’t give a shit. I don’t care about tomorrow, and it’s a relief. Such a relief not to care, not to be afraid for once.

I’m so sick and tired of fear.

The tequila goes down easily, sliding down my throat to warm up my chest. The smoke makes me high, the booze low. A precarious balance of moods.

Briefly I wonder where the homeowners are, the parents supposed to keep an eye on their crazy offspring and their friends. Probably out of town.

Well, they might be in for a surprise when they’re back, I think, watching some suspicious action taking place through the French window overlooking the pool. Small plastic bags are changing hands, bags filled with powder or pills.

Or am I seeing things? I rub at my bleary eyes, unsure.

“Hey, cutie.” A girl has come to stand in front of me. She winks with super-long black lashes. “Wanna dance with me?”

Her outline shimmers.

I want to say no—but why the hell not, right? My best friend hates me, the girl I want doesn’t want me, and it won’t be long before I’m laid out anyway, too sick to think.

Her hand slips into mine, and I barely have time to put my cigarette out in an ashtray before she tugs me away from the window. Her grip is cool and dry, and she smells of perfum

e, something musky and heavy. It makes the nausea worse, and in any case… what the hell am I doing?

Something holds me back. The same thing that has held me back for this past year. And it’s not a thing, it’s a girl, and not just a girl.

A feeling.

I yank my hand away as if hers burns. “Uh, no can do, sorry. I’m waiting for someone.”

“A girl.” She says it with disdain, as if she doesn’t fit in that description, too.

“That’s right.”

I stumble back, black eating patches of my vision, and turn away. Drink more tequila, or find a dark corner to curl up? Maybe in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Or better yet, a bathroom. Bile is souring my mouth already, and I should have seen this coming. Stress triggers it every damn time. Alcohol was just the last push into hell, and I’m about to tumble down all the goddamn way.

As if all this wasn’t bad enough, as if my descent into hell wasn’t enough punishment, a familiar face swims into view as I make my way through the laughing, yelling, dancing crowd:

West.

He makes a grab for me just as my stomach finally rebels, and I puke all over his shoes—the shoes of my best friend who doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.

Jesus, I must have really kicked someone’s whole litter of puppies in a past life.

“How much did you have to drink?” West is asking as I finish puking for the third time and sit back on my ass in front of the toilet.

“Two beers. A tequila.”

“A bottle of it?”

“You’re so fucking funny, Weston, anyone tell you that?” I wheeze. “Nah, I only had two shots.”

Ow, my head. I put my hand over my eyes, the light is like a red-hot poker being shoved slowly into the right side of my head, and it’s all I can do not to howl.

“Then why are you puking your guts out? Wait a sec…” A grunt. A slither. He’s sat down beside me. “Sensitivity to the light. Nausea. A migraine?”

I know without looking that those too-perceptive blue eyes are on me. “Yeah.”