David
I search everywhere for Emily. People keep stopping me, forcing me to make an excuse to leave. I need to find her. Every moment spent trying to escape the uninhibited people around me feels like an eternity. I'm panicking now. These aren't good people. I told her that. These people aren't even “friends”. Not really. They don't care about me, and I'd be forgotten the day I stopped showing up at these parties.
I remember Garrett talking about the drugs upstairs and make my way through the crowd and toward the stairs. My heart is racing. This time it's from fear instead of a solid line of coke.
I shouldn't have introduced Emily to any of these people.
I turn the corner and see the door to Garrett's room. It isn't locked as it usually is. I swallow hard. So help me, god, if he's even laid a finger on her...
I open the door, realize I haven’t taken a breath, and inhale. I peer into the dimly lit room. There’s a record playing, but I can’t make out the lyrics over the deafening sound of skin against skin. Garrett is thrusting over someone. I hear sloppy kissing. I turn to leave and continue my exhausting search for Emily. My heart sinks as I trip over one of Emily's black boots on the floor.
I rush back into the room and grab Garrett by the collar of his shirt. I pull him backwards and he loses his footing because of his half downed jeans. I turn around and see Emily, barely conscious on the bed. She’s unaware of what was unfolding. I'm torn between killing him and consoling her. My jaw clenches as I stare at him.
“What the fuck, Garrett?” I scream. It’s a guttural sound from deep within my throat.
He smirks and pushes past, knocking into me and effectively shouldering me as he finishes zipping up his jeans. Did he really do this because I bumped into him earlier? How fucking petty.
“Lock up when you're done with her,” he yells.
I follow him for a few steps and knock into the wooden door frame. Em whimpers from the bed. I run back to her and wrap her in my arms. I turn her face to me and slap her cheek gently. I try again with more force when she doesn’t react.
“Emily, wake up! Em!”
I shake her, and she mumbles something low and incoherent. People gather at the doorway, probably thinking she overdosed. As if she were like any of these fucking people. I don’t realize I’m crying until a few tears land on her chest. I shake her again. Her breathing is slow and even.
I lift her into my arms and carry her across the hallway. I fumble with the bathroom door. When it opens, I see a woman bent over with her chest pressed against the vanity. Her skirt is hiked up to her waist. A man behind her thrusts with drunken haste. They both look up at me without stopping, almost as if they are enjoying the audience.
“Come on!” I snap at them.
The drunken man thrusts a few more times while looking me in the eyes, attempting to defy my command.
“Get the fuck out!” I yell. My voice is deep and leaves no room for defiance.
The woman stands upright and lowers her skirt. The guy doesn’t bother buttoning his pants as she guides him toward another room.
I shift my attention back to Emily. I turn on the tap in the tub with one hand and try to place her gently into the shower without slipping and falling into her. The stream of water is cold, and I smack her cheeks as it rains down on her. Her makeup runs and her eyes loll.
“David,” she whispers.
She starts to throw up where she lays. I lift her and turn her head so she can puke.
“Let it all out. Thatta girl. You're okay, baby. You're okay.”
I don't know if I’m trying to convince her or myself. She tries to stand, but her legs are weak, and she keeps slipping.
“Don't move, Em.” I bury my face into her hair. She's soaked and freezing cold. I weep for the first time since the day my mom died. “I am so, so, sorry.” I sob and apologize until she's strong enough to push me away. I lift her out of the shower and wrap her in a towel. “Fuck you Garrett. You and your fancy fucking towels,” I scoff. Each piece of expensive furnishing is suddenly distasteful, as if they are physical representations of him.
I take Emily to the truck, buckle her into the passenger seat, and start driving home. I honk as people hover in front of the vehicle, preventing me from pulling out. By the time we get home, it’s late.
I lift her out of the truck and her arms wrap around my neck. By now, she just appears to be sloppy drunk—which will be my story if Deidre is still awake. I unlock the front door and walk into the living room. The lights are off. Deidre is asleep upstairs. I carry Emily to her room, lay her down, and unzip the damp and crumpled dress. The zipper stops at the arch of her lower back. The flesh there is soft and pale. I kiss her bare shoulder. I pull her dress down past bare hips and shudder, having almost forgotten about her panties on Garrett's bed. He’s a dead man if I ever see him again.
“I’m so sorry, Emily,” I continue apologizing. It’s all I can say.
I pull the blanket over her, curl up on the recliner, and fall asleep listening to the sound of her breaths.