Five Years Ago

Five years ago

“What’cha need, little girl?” Aunt Mattie asked, a cigarette dangling from her lip. The old woman was sitting in her cluttered den. The TV was on, but she as usual, Aunt Mattie wasn’t watching it—I don’t like the noise, but I hate the quiet, she was known for saying.

“I, uh, well, I wanted to talk…” Emily said carefully.

“Yer pregnant,” Aunt Mattie guessed in her raspy voice.

“Ew, no. It’s about Brian.”

“Yer pregnant, and it’s Brian’s,” Aunt Mattie tried again, blowing out a mouthful of smoke and lazily dispersing it with her hand.

“Uhh, well actually, he’s turning eighteen… and I wanted to see if he could live with you,” Emily said. “His parents are bad. He had these plans about moving out sometime right after his birthday, but… well, they were all really shitty.”

“And how’s that?”

“He doesn’t—um. He can’t just, I don’t know… ask people for help. I dunno, psychologically or whatever, I guess. None of the plans I get out of him have him relying on anyone. They’re all kinda… well, they just take too long.”

“Well, I don’t mind, o’course,” Aunt Mattie rasped. “Any’ve ya are always free to come and go, you know that. Brian seems like a good kid. Little quiet. That Will seems ta jus ‘bout already live here already anyways.”

“Really? You mean it?” Emily lit up. “Uh, he can help out around here. And probably pay rent. Or, or if not, I could help out, maybe.”

HWONK! Emily leaned across Will and angrily bashed the bottom of her fist into the car horn in the steering wheel again. HWOOOONK!

“Christ, cut it out,” Will griped. He was squished into the middle seat of the cab bench of Michael’s truck, despite Emily having a much smaller frame than him. “You’re gonna get us in trouble.”

Several months into their senior year of high school, they were parked in the driveway outside Brian’s house, ready to whisk him away from there for good. He was supposed to come outside with all of his stuff at the first blare of the horn they’d, some made five minutes ago. Each passing second saw Emily growing more and more agitated.

“Maybe nobody’s home?” Michael guessed, an arm hanging out his window and fingers idly drumming on the driver’s side door. “You sure Brian turns eighteen today?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” Emily shot both of her friends a glare and clawed the latch, shoving her door open. She couldn’t explain how anxious and worked up she was getting; she didn’t have the right words right now. Instead, trembling raw violence was starting to accumulate just beneath her skin. The plan to move Brian out the moment he was of age had been kept a secret from his parents. Obviously, something went wrong.

Doesn’t fucking matter. Doesn’t fucking matter! They can’t try to stop us. He’s eighteen today. He’s legally fucking free of their bullshit. They can’t do anything, they can’t say anything. She rang the doorbell and waited impatiently, tempted to immediately ring it again and again, or press it and hold it down until those doors opened and released Brian.

“Can I help you.” When the door opened, Brian’s dad filled the doorway, looming impossibly large over her. It was immediately clear that her arrival had interrupted a heated argument going on within the house, because he already looked furious. A duffel bag, one of the ones she presumed contained Brian’s packed clothing, was clutched in a quashing grip in his enormous hand—he wasn’t holding it by the handles. With his broad, fat body and impressive height, six foot ten at the least, he seemed like an ogre brandishing an oblong rock.

A flash of fear crept into the righteous anger she’d been building up, and she was able to look past the giant figure in the entranceway and saw Brian. He was tense, a drawstring bag tucked under one arm and a small round hamper of clothes in the other. The sight of him in that moment was heartbreaking, but made her feel more resolute than ever.

“It’s time to go,” she called, pretending Brian’s father wasn’t there.

“He’s not going anywhere,” Brian’s father said dismissively. “You can leave now. This doesn’t have anything to do with you. Don’t come back.”

This has everything to do with me. She bit back her words and composed herself, continuing to ignore the huge figure standing between them. “Brian? It’s time to go.”

There was an impossibly tense silence to the standoff they were locked in the the entranceway, and then finally, Brian spoke up.

“I’m going.”

“No, you’re not,” his father insisted loudly, displeased that his son had even considered disobeying him. “Go to your room. I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

“Leave. Now,” Brian’s dad turned his attention to Emily, raising his voice.

She took a step back, not daring to glance towards Brian—who was quietly creeping up towards where his father was blocking the doorway—for fear that she’d give him away.

“Stop. Stop!” Mr. Douglas demanded, dropping the duffel and lunging for Brian the moment he tried to push past him. His hasty grab clipped Brian’s arm and knocked the small laundry basket tumbling across the front steps… but he’d failed to catch him.

“You get back here, right now. Or there’s going to be consequences,” his father warned, face livid with anger. “You leave here today, that’s it. You’re done. You won’t ever be welcome back here again. Ever.”

“Yeah,” Brian said, making an expression Emily was unable to understand. “I know.” When she regaled others with the story later on, she’d describe Brian as a stoic badass, because the bitter resignation and disappointment she actually saw made her feel sick to her stomach.

And then they were walking at a brisk pace towards Mike and Will in the waiting truck, not daring to look back. They didn’t try to reclaim the hamper that’d spilled Brian’s clothes across the front steps, or the duffel his father had thrown into the nearby hedge. Brian tossed his lone drawstring bag into the bed of the truck and then climbed in after it.

“Go. Go.” Emily returned to the cab as quickly as she could, ignoring their friends’ questioning looks.

Brian’s father remained standing in the doorway of the enormous house as they pulled out of the driveway, with a stare that made Emily’s blood run cold, but that was that. Brian was free.

“I’m not in love with Brian,” Emily repeated, annoyed. “Why do people keep thinking that?”

“Prooobably ‘cause you’re so in love with Brian,” Sammie pointed out, smirking. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Uh, because I’m totally not,” Emily retorted, rolling her eyes.

“How come you’re always talking ‘bout him, then?” Samantha teased. “Like, you bring him up a billion times a day.”

“I mentioned him twice,” Emily refuted. “I’m just worried about him, that’s all. He’s goin’ through a lot.”

“Yeah? Well, who isn’t, these days? What’s his problems gotta do with you?”

Despite Brian’s newfound freedom, Emily was seeing less and less of him. Within the first week settling into one of Aunt Mattie’s spare bedrooms, he’d picked up a part-time job for after school. He was a cook at the Marino’s Pizza, where Will worked as a delivery driver. She loved knowing he was safe from his parents and doing alright on his own, but, at the same time, seeing him tired and frazzled after a day at high school and a night at Marino’s gave her pangs of guilt.

“He’s my friend,” Emily insisted, huffing. “Can’t a guy and a girl just be friends without it having to be some big weird, sexual or romantic thing?”

“Sure they can,” Samantha nodded. “Not you, though. Definitely not. You’ve got it bad.”

“There’s a billion reasons why I’m not in love with Brian, though,” Emily lied. “I don’t go all ga-ga when I’m around him. It’s not like I can’t take my eyes off him or anything. I don’t fantasize about him, or think of him in that sorta way, that’d be fuckin’ weird. He’s my friend. I think I know what love feels like, thanks.”

“Y’know, for like, this little split-second I thought you were actually in denial,” Samantha laughed. “And then I remember—that you’re so full of shit. I can never believe a word you say.”

“Okay, whatever, then. Did you, you know… did you bring that thing I asked you for?”

Samantha answered with a broad, teasing smile, and she slipped a bottle of tequila off the top of her dresser.

“Nice! Awesome! You’re the best,” Emily praised, hugging her cousin and then examining the bottle closely.

“I know I can’t talk, ‘cause I was drinking underage like, waaay younger than you are now, but you get caught doing somethin’ real stupid with that—you didn’t get it from me,” Sammie warned, before letting out an exasperated sigh. “But who am I kidding? Of course you’re gonna do somethin’ stupid.”

“I am,” Emily admitted with a grin. “But I’m not driving, or going anywhere or anything. I’m gonna be doing it, y’know, in private. Mostly.”

“Uh-huh. Bet it’s got nothin’ to do with Brian, huh?” Samantha guessed, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re such a dork.”

Emily didn’t have a comeback for that one, because she was already blushing fiercely.

“Hey. Hey. Heeey. We’re both eighteen now. Wanna know somethin’ funny?” Emily teased, leaning in closer to her companion for the night.

“Dunno how much more funny I can handle tonight,” Brian said with a bitter laugh.

“Aw, c’mon. C’mon, this one’s good. No, this one’s great,” she giggled, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction. She wasn’t anywhere near as drunk as she wanted to appear, but those few swigs of tequila she’d taken sure helped those giggles come out. Much better, more natural-sounding, than the ones she’d rehearsed earlier. This was a brilliant plan after all.

It was just after the San Michaels Homecoming dance, which neither Brian nor Emily had attended, and all the friends they had in town had gathered for the raucous party Mike was throwing at Aunt Mattie’s place. For the twenty-some odd seniors gathered at her place, Aunt Mattie’s rules were simple; if you were going to drink, you either gave up your car keys, or you were staying the night. Anyone ‘up to no good’ got squirted with the spray bottle she normally kept to keep the cat off the furniture. So far, that was only her own nephew Mike and his girlfriend Tanya—now those two weren’t allowed to leave the wrap-around porch where everyone could see them.

Most of the high-school seniors were out there as well, while a number were also having a LAN party of the shooter game Grail 2, an activity resounding with gunfire, explosions, and swearing in equal measure. Claiming the racket was going to give her a headache, Emily’d convinced Brian to sit with her over in the living room. Where we can be alone, and the mood’s just right.

“Emmie, I’m feelin’ pretty torn right about now actually,” Brian mused, his words snapping her out of her reverie. “On the one hand, I want to be able to hold this night over your head for years… but on the other hand, as your friend, I’ve also gotta stop you from embarrassing yourself too much, you know? How ‘bout you call it a night?”

“Noooooo. Noooooo. I’ve only had this much,” she laughed, raising the bottle of Tequila to show him how little of it she’d actually had. The amber liquid inside was barely down to the neck of the bottle—no wait, it was down several inches lower than that now. When did that happen? Another giggle slipped out, this time unintentionally. Whoopsie.

“Yep, time for me to drive you home,” Brian decided, starting to rise off the sofa.

“No no no no,” Emily said, forcibly pulling him back down next to her. “Not yet, c’mon. I didn’t even tell you the big secret yet.”

“You said you were gonna tell me something funny, not something secret,” Brian pointed out.

“No—no I didn’t,” Emily replied, scrunching up her face like she was trying to remember. “But anyways, like, if it’s funny, it has to be a secret, right? If it’s not a secret, then the punch-line’s not funny, ‘cause you already know it?”

“Motor-mouth don’t have any secrets,” Aunt Mattie laughed in her raspy smoker’s voice as she passed through their room, collecting dirty plates in each hand.

“I do so have a secret!” Emily insisted, struggling to sit up straight and making sure neither of her hands were on Brian.

“Uh-huh,” Aunt Mattie laughed, rolling her eyes at the bottle of tequila. “You want a glass for that, honey?”

“I’m okay,” Emily said. “Don’t wanna dirty more dishes for you.”

“For me?” Aunt Mattie laughed, continuing on into the kitchen. “First one of you sprouts that throws up is doin’ all the dishes in the morning. Probably gonna be you.”

“Your punchline better not be you puking all over me,” Brian muttered, just barely loud enough for her to hear.

“Yeah, real funny,” Emily griped, slapping his arm a little harder than she’d intended. “You’re just a sissy crybaby who’s too scared to drink.”

“Well… Fair enough, I guess I am,” Brian said, giving her a rare serious look.

“Uh…what?” Emily asked, surprised. She almost forgot to look drunk for a moment, so she hurriedly scrunched up her face to look confused, slapping his arm a little more gently this time. “What are you talking about? You don’t ever wanna drink?”

“I dunno. Maybe someday,” Brian said.

“Today’s a someday,” Emily pointed out, pushing the bottle towards his face. You just put your lips right there, straight on the bottle I’m drinking from. Ooh, that’d be an ‘indirect kiss!’

Another fit of unseemly giggles slipped out before she could stop them. Fuck. Wait a minute. I’m just pretending to be tipsy… right? Fuck. Fuuuuck.

“I’m just… you know, I’m holding a lot in. All the time. So the idea of drinking scares the hell outta me. Letting my control loosen up any, letting anything slip out… that’d be, uh, bad. My inhibitions, my, uh, my pretending that I’m okay and can deal with everything is like, all that keeps me together, you know? One little slip of my real feelings could put me in a world of hurt. In a lot of ways.”

“Brian…” Emily blurted out, and as she gazed at his serious countenance, she felt the giddiness from the alcohol burning off, leaving behind only that sluggish, muddled feeling. Fuck. Fuck, he’s being serious here, and I really am drunk. Okay, I am definitely a little drunk, but I’m not TOO drunk. C’mon, Emily, think of the right thing to say here.

“Me too,” Emily slurred. “That’s… that’s totally me with that. Too. The same as like you.” No wait, don’t say that, idiot. Fuck. It already came out, I already said it.

Brian gave her a half-hearted smile and ruffled her hair.

“No, fer real,” she insisted, clumsily slapping away his hand. “I mean, not the same things exactly, but it’s the same, like, same problem. That I can’t say what I want, or like, I’m scared to. That’s why I brought this shtuff in the first place. Hah, this shtuff! This stuff. So I can let out the things that need said.”

“Emily…”

“What’re you tryin’ ta hold everything in for?” Emily demanded. “Aren’t we best friends?”

“What are you trying to let out?” He countered. “When’s there ever been anything you had trouble telling me?”

“That’s the secret,” Emily said in exasperation, taking another healthy swig of the Tequila. The stuff tasted like it smelled, acrid and pungent enough that she hated it. But at the same time, there was something magical about that buttery warmth that was coursing through her as a result.

“Emily, I’m not your mother…”

She sputtered with laughter at that, even attempted to repeat him, all without realizing that his words weren’t actually quite as hysterical as they seemed to her.

“Emily, I’m not your mother, but seriously… you weigh like ninety pounds, and you’ve had enough to drink. More than enough to drink. You realize you’re going to pay for this tomorrow, right?”

“Nuh-uh, no I don’t,” Emily laughed triumphantly, jabbing him with a finger. “Sammie already bought it for me, so HAH!”

“Uh-huh,” Brian nodded, hefting his own bottle of tequila in his hands.

Awesome! Now we each have a bottle. Finally! Emily stupidly looked down at her hands to find them empty, her own tequila having vanished, bottle and all. It wasn’t anywhere in her lap, or in the sofa cushions. The… fuck? Brian, are you a wizard?

“Jesus, Emily—this stuff’s fifty percent alcohol. I hope you gave out a bunch of shots to everyone else first. Tell me you didn’t drink all of this,” he muttered, examining the label for another moment before swishing the amber liquid back and forth. Only like, half of the bottle’s gone. Are you making fun of me?

“H-hey, that’s mine!” Emily exclaimed, her thought process having finally caught up. “Gimme it back!”

“Can I have some?” he asked, raising the bottle up out of her reach.

“Uhhh, well yeah.”

“Okay. I’m gonna go drink the rest of this, alright? And I’m going to bring you back some water. Here, keep this little trash can handy. Just in case. You hold onto the couch here with both hands and try not to let go.”

“I’m not a little fuckin’ kid you know,” Emily breathed in a cute voice, leaning in closer.

“I know, I know,” he said, patting her shoulder in a way she found extremely patronizing. “Now you just hang on and concentrate on not dying ‘till I get back, alright?”

“Wait, wait,” Emily stopped him, scrunched up her eyebrows. “Are you… really gonna drink?” Her plan to confess to Brian was going tits up in a hurry. Maybe if he drank too, some of this situation could be overlooked, things could still be salvaged.

“I can’t, actually. Then I’d have to give Aunt Mattie my keys,” he laughed.

“Hurr hurr, very funny,” she said sarcastically, quickly snatching back the bottle. “You live here now, jackass.”

“Okay, if I drank, then who’d look after you?” He asked.

“Brian. Brian. I don’t want you to look after me,” Emily said, unsteadily crawling closer towards him on the sofa. “I want you to look at me.”

“I’m… uh, I am—I’m lookin’ right at you,” he said slowly.

Is he… Emily wondered, blinking rapidly. Nervous? Does he like me after all? Maybe?

“Wh-what do you see?” She asked.

“Emily…” Brian quirked his head, giving her an amused look. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

“Why, is that what you see?” She laughed, her voice slightly slurring. “Compliments? I mean, when you see me. Tell me! You have to.”

“Well… I guess you’re kinda cute.”

“Uh-huh,” she smiled, gesturing impatiently for him to continue. “Go on.”

“You’re really… putting me on the spot, here,” Brian chuckled uneasily. “I don’t wanna make anything weird. Not between us.”

“Nothing’s weird here,” Emily insisted, shaking her head. “And nothing’s gonna get weird. It’s you and me. It’s just, I dunno, I wanna know, okay?”

“So… drinking makes you self-conscious?”

“What? No. No,” Emily denied in a fluster. All this drinking was supposed to do the exact opposite of that. C’mon, Brian. I’m not looking for insights into my psyche… just give me somethin’ here. A little bit more confidence. ANYTHING.

“Tell me your secret first, then,” Brian challenged.

This is it.

“O-okay. Alright, then. But, um, it’s the big secret, so you gotta c’mere,” Emily whispered. “I don’t want anyone, y’know, overhearing or nothing.”

A grin was plastered on her face, but despite the sips of Tequila, her insides seemed to have twisted themselves dry and sober in dreadful anticipation of this moment. Brian gave her a compliant nod and chuckled, leaning in so that they were sitting in a huddle together on that couch.

This is it. She let her forehead knock lightly against his. Took a deep breath. Raised her hands to cradle his face, and tilted her head up to kiss him.

His shock was brief, but in that fleeting moment she managed to register a slight wetness on the inside of his lips. The kiss wasn’t as soft as she’d fantasized… but it was better. Because it was real, it was Brian she was kissing, his hands that were drawing up to tightly grip her shoulders—

To shove her back away from him.

Her clouded eyes blinked at him in surprise and confusion, making her look in that moment every bit as drunk as she was. Emily had almost tasted her dreams in that kiss. Brian, while obviously surprised, was only able to notice the overwhelming taste of tequila from her.

“The fuck was that, Emily?!” Brian growled, rising out of his seat. “That’s not fucking funny. You’re… you’re completely smashed. Aren’t you?” He angrily grabbed the half-empty tequila bottle from between them and tossed it into the waste bin next to their feet with a thunk, knocking the bin over and spilling crumpled napkins onto the floor.

“Ha, aha, haha,” Emily laughed from where she’d slumped over on the armrest of the couch, hiding her face. She’d intended that laugh to sound like a drunken giggle, but something like a self-deprecating chuckle came out instead. Her eyes were full of tears, and she didn’t dare to let Brian see them.

Wh-what do I do now? Do I tell him I’m not really THAT drunk? That I like him? The moment’s all—it’s all ruined! How’d this go so completely wrong? Even if, if he thought it was a joke, or me being drunk, I never thought he’d get upset. Why’s he upset?! This wasn’t in the plan. They were supposed to drink just enough to loosen them up and ease their nerves, and then she would tell him the big secret; how she’d always felt about him. With all of their friends here, with everyone having a good time, there couldn’t have been a more perfect time or place for her to do this. Or so she thought.

Even hammered as she was, understanding what went wrong made her even more furious at herself. Because fuck! I WAS pretending to be drunk, so there’d wiggle room for this fucking misunderstanding—just had to play it safe. Emily, you fucking coward. Just had to leave yourself a way out, just in fucking case. Stupid. Fucking STUPID!

Now I STILL don’t know how he feels. Came off looking like a drunken fucking whore. And, now we’re both sitting here across a couch from each other in awkward fucking silence. Even though this guy’s my closest friend, and the only guy I really trust in the whole god-damned world. FUCK! Emily quickly discovered that the alcohol that brought out the bubbly, uninhibited enthusiasm from earlier just as easily magnified her negative feelings, her anger and a quickly growing sense of bitter contempt for herself.

Jesus Christ, drinking’s fucking dangerous. They sat in agitated silence on the sofa in the side room together, not crossing lines of sight. Despite how dumb she knew it was, she pulled the tequila out of the waste basket and continued taking stubborn swigs from the bottle. Fuck it, that’s why—why the hell not?

Less than ten minutes later, Emily felt extremely sick.

“I don’t… feel so great,” she reluctantly admitted. All of the tequila she’d been drinking seemed to catch up to her in a hurry, that brave, buttery warmth from before having expanded into a nauseating, sludgy sensation. A painful pressure that permeated out from her stomach towards every sluggish part of her body. The room she and Brian were in had been quiet and still, but her sense of balance persisted in telling her that her surroundings were steadily spinning around her like a carousel. Brian made a quick trip to the kitchen and returned with some water for her.

“Emily, drink,” Brian tried to hand her the cup first.

“I can’t.”

“It’s water.”

“I—I can’t drink anymore. I can’t drink anymore anything,” she explained. She refused the glass with a clumsy hand, feeling so sloshy and bloated that the thought of trying to swallow anything else made her want to hurl.

“Okay,” Brian frowned. “Do you want to lie down? Or do you have to throw up?”

“I think so.”

“To which? Lying down, or throwing up?”

“…Yes.”

She tried throwing up into the offered waste can, making a gluh noise every time and then laughing pitiably at herself. Nothing was coming out, but that urge to vomit wasn’t really leaving, either. Brian eventually set the waste basket aside and helped her situate herself to lay down flat on her back across the sofa. Emily honestly felt like he was exaggeratedly fussing over her—until she realized she’d pinned one of her legs under herself and was actually just embarrassing herself, too drunk to lay down properly? Great—fucking job, Emily. Great job… legs. Stupid lag. Nothing’s working right.

“You—you don’t have to stay here,” Emily blustered. The night of the party had been winding down, but she could still hear plenty of people talking and laughing in the next room over playing Grail 2. He’s probably… pissed at me anyways. Her mind felt as sluggish as molasses, her thoughts often stalling halfway and sometimes not seeming to continue again.

“Yeah, I do.” Brian actually did sound a little annoyed, and it stung. “You’re my Emily, and you’re drunk. And, James, Conner, and a bunch of other creeps got invited tonight. You’d be pissed at me tomorrow if you hear I didn’t try to stop you from making out with a whole bunch of random assholes.”

“I’ll barf on ‘em,” Emily groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. His words hurt, but she didn’t have the courage to refute them. You think I’m… just not. Dis…discerning? Because I’m a little… drunk? Kissing you was… always the plan. You. And only you. And no one else! No one else. I’m sorry I wasn’t… brave enough. To kiss you without being drinking. Without? Being. Drunk.

“I’m saawrry,” she slurred out loud. Before she even realized it, she’d started to softly sob. The stupid way her words sounded only made her more ashamed and crushed. I’m sorry, Brian. I’m so sorry, for messing this up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

“For what?” Brian had been leaning back against her sofa, but now twisted in surprise. “Emily—why are you crying?!”

“I’m… s-sorry,” she sniffled weakly. “Don’t leave… please.”

“I said I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, turning around. He pressed one hand on her forehead and clamped the other on her arm. His presence and attention seemed to steady her, and the dizzying spin the room had been doing started to subside somewhat.

“I’m right here. You’re gonna be alright—you just drank way, way too much. Way too much. It’s okay. You’re gonna be fine.”

Her eyes watered again, turning her last look at his confused expression into a blur as she started crying again. Several minutes later, she passed out.

“Oh good, you survived,” Aunt Mattie laughed, and Emily flinched, recoiling back from the sheer volume of the old lady’s voice—seemingly a full hundred decibels louder than normal. “Hah, aren’t you a sorry sight.”

Emily had already been awake—sorta, staring blearily in a stupor at the tiled wall beside the bathtub she was in. Aunt Mattie’s arrival snapped her into full awareness, and she jerked, curling into a painful ball. She didn’t understand where she was—this wasn’t the downstairs bathroom or the upstairs bathroom she was familiar with. Making a wretched face, all she could do was clutch the sides of her head. What. The fuck. Happened?! Did I fall and crack my fucking skull?

“Brian carried you up here so no one’d come ‘cross you by accident,” Aunt Mattie chuckled as she squeezed toothpaste onto a brush, having noticing Emily’s disorientation. “This’s my bathroom, one that’s attached to my bedroom. Yer pants’re washed and dried, he ran ‘em through late last night.” The old woman patted a familiar-looking pair of folded jeans on the countertop for emphasis.

“He took care o’ the sofa cushion as well, so nobody’ll know any better. You’re on yer own with your undies, he didn’t think it was his place to take ‘em off.” Seeing Emily simply staring at her with a scrunched-up face, uncomprehending, Aunt Mattie snorted and started brushing her teeth.

The intense headache she’d woken with throbbed, a phantom hand that was physically gripping her brain and squeezing to the rhythm of her heartbeat. It was so painful that she didn’t even try to process what was going on, let alone what any of Aunt Mattie’s words meant.

She felt awful. Her head was splitting, and her neck ached from being canted at an awkward angle sleeping in a tub—despite the rolled-up bath towel someone had tucked beneath her head as a makeshift pillow. The inside of her mouth reeked of tequila, and her entire body felt sticky with foul-smelling sweat. She was cold, damp like she’d been sitting in a puddle, and absolutely mortified to discover she wasn’t wearing her pants. Aunt Mattie had taken care to point out that they were washed, folded, and sitting on the counter, but the girl’s thought processes were still struggling weakly through boot-up this morning.

I… wet myself?! I FUCKING WET MYSELF. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. Emily started swearing inwardly at herself and didn’t stop for several minutes, cradling her pounding head and fighting for the willpower to sit up. It’s over. It’s all over. I tried to kiss him. And then I passed out and fucking wet myself?! How the fucking fuck stupid fucking was I? Fuck! FUCK!

Emily groaned horribly, finally managing to right herself—at the expense of knocking the side of her head against the tiled wall. She did remember drinking and talking with Brian. Remembered trying to kiss him, and being rejected. She even recalled, somewhat loosely, the alcohol catching up with her, and Brian… helping take care of her? She’d woken up several times after that throughout the night, but those memories were so fuzzy they were indistinct. Fever dreams soaked through with nasty fucking tequila? Why would Brian look after me right after he turns me down?

Emily didn’t want to believe all of this was real, and before she could even climb out of the tub she was crying.

“Oh, you’ll be alright. Get yerself all cleaned up now,” Aunt Mattie instructed after gargling and spitting into the sink. “You’re going to help me make everyone a big breakfast, an’ ya need somethin’ in your stomach even more’n them. Asprin’s here in the medicine cabinet.”

“Does… does Brian know?” Emily asked weakly, clutching both hands on her face.

“I said he carried ya up here, didn’t I?” Aunt Mattie laughed in her raspy voice. “I ain’t gonna say anything about it. You kids havta get into these messes or you’ll never learn nothin’ by ‘em. You learn yourself yer lesson?”

Emily bowed her head and nodded obediently, not daring to raise it until Aunt Mattie’d left, closing the door behind her. What the fuck’s even fucking worse? Everyone else knowing, or Brian knowing? Fuuuck!

“Emily!” Brian still sounded groggy, even after being one of the last to wake up from last night’s party. “You’re awake?!”

“…Brian,” Emily acknowledged him in a grave voice. She was wearing a large apron atop her clothes and was serving the long dining table of survivors from the night’s festivities. French toast was heaped in a basket, a large glass dish of scrambled eggs was half-gone, and the plate of bacon was empty. Several different boxes of cereal stood around the table, where nine teens sat looking too tired and morose to do much more than chew.

“You okay? I thought for sure you were gonna be up puking all night long, but you never—”

“Brian,” Emily warned, wincing at his voice. “Shhhhh.”

“Shhhhhh,” Mike agreed, wearing the same pained face. The next seat over, Mike’s girlfriend Tanya had her brows furrowed in displeasure as she slowly ate spoon-fulls of cereal with her eyes tightly closed.

“Hangovers all around,” Will muttered, flipping idly through pictures on his phone. “Aw, man, Brian, you missed a flippin’ awesome game of truth or dare last night. You’ve gotta come see these.”

“Shhhhhh,” Mike shushed again, and this time three of the others seated at the table joined in.

“…Brian, can I see you for a sec?” Emily mumbled, pulling him over onto the porch.

“Are you okay?” Brian asked.

Am I okay? She crossed her arms and paced uncomfortably beside the porch railing. Before, she’d been just another nervous teen with a crush, ready to timidly poke her toes in, to test the waters. One mistake, and she was plunging into the depths and in way over her head, drowning in shame. Horrifying shame and regret, so overwhelming that it physically stung. Am I okay, are you fucking serious?

“Brian, last night didn’t happen. Okay? You can’t tell anyone, and you can’t remember it, either—ever. It didn’t happen.”

“Uh, alright. But do you know what you did last night? You—”

“No,” Emily interrupted, not meeting his eyes. “No, I don’t want to know, and I don’t want to talk about it, and—I don’t want you to know. So… it didn’t happen. It just didn’t happen. Okay? Please?”

“You’re the boss,” Brian shrugged. “You alright?”

“Okay. Thank you. I’m glad we didn’t have to turn this into yet another murder-suicide,” she joked, brushing past him back into the kitchen, where she was supposed to be looking after the next batch of bacon. Fuck, just… fuck. Last night wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. FUCK. I just wanted to kiss you.

Emily stood over the skillet with a pair of tongs and watched on with a distant expression as the bacon burned completely black.