I’m still feeling shitty, but the weed is helping a bit as we stand in the house’s entrance and Grace tells me to smile, and I say, “I can’t,” and she says, “You can’t be sad and tanned.” I suddenly feel sick, and I tell her I’m going to puke. She tilts her head and stares at me with a weird look, but nods okay, and then mentions that she’s going to find Bret; he just texted her, and just to find her after.
Once I get into the bathroom, I lock the door and let the water run for a second before I cup my hands, take a couple sips, and feel better. I turn off the tap and stare at the reflection in the mirror, which is vibrating with the bass of the music that’s coming from somewhere. At first, it’s like I’m looking at a blurred version of myself until the mirror stops shaking and I notice how pale I am, even though I’ve been lying drunk in the sun by the pool for the last few weeks. As I’m standing there dazed, I forget where I am, and suddenly I get startled when someone pounds on the door, so I leave.
I’m roaming the halls, swerving between the bodies and glancing at the heads of people I don’t know, looking for Grace, and I’m waiting for the song to finish so a new one can start—one that I remember—and no one even looks at me as I walk past them; I’m just floating through it all, like I don’t exist.
Turning a corner and into the kitchen, I grab the 60-ounce of gin that’s laid out on the island with maybe 30 other different bottles of booze, and as I’m filling up a red cup, a guy in an Abercrombie & Fitch shirt stands beside me, watching me pour my drink, and then comments on how well I handle large objects, and when I don’t make eye contact or say anything, he calls me a cunt and walks away.
My back is pressed up against the wall in a little alcove, kind of hidden in the living room. It’s been an hour, and Grace still isn’t answering her phone. Evil Dead plays muted on a big screen TV behind six girls dancing out of synch to the song “It’s The End Of The World (And I Feel Fine)” as some guy runs in from the patio, ripping off his shirt, and yelling over the music at the girls. I’m buzzed, but I’m holding my drink a bit too tight when someone gently taps my arm.
Standing tall, almost over me, he’s backlit by the pot light above, which shines down on a jet-black Clash t-shirt, skin tight around his chest, and large biceps; faded-light-brown jeans, perfectly outlining the bulge of his crotch; and tan Blundstone boots—size 12, maybe 13? I look at his lush pink lips, smiling around his perfect white teeth, and the dirty blonde hair slightly pushed back and over to the left is like a backdrop to his crystal blue eyes, like water. And as I stare, my reflection disappears into them. His touch is cold but gentle when he offers me a drink—gin. How did he know?
