In a general sense, 22 years old is young. I think. At least I feel like this is the beginning of my life, like those prior excruciating 22 years were a trial period of what's to come.
At parties, 22 can either be the perfect age range, or you feel like a creep around a bunch of teenagers. Not that I go to teenager parties, you know, the crappy ones they host in high school, and when I have parties, I don't invite anyone under 18. However, some people do, and it's hard to avoid.
This one in the dorm?
I have no fucking idea if 22 is too old, just enough, or even too young. Some people look like they're teachers at the university and some look like they haven't even reached high school yet, and it's a bit concerning.
But I live in River Bay, so what did I expect? Normalcy? Legality? During my last year of high school, the nurse got caught selling prescription drugs. Like, illegal prescription drugs. My ex reported it. Not because he cared that it was illegal, no—it was bad for his business.
My ex is a drug dealer. My drug dealer, actually. We got into this shit together so now we just feed each other's addictions. Or, well, he feeds mine. I only enable him, like you do in healthy friendships.
Anyway, this party—awful sound quality on the stereos that makes my ears bleed, the weirdest mixture of regular lights, Christmas lights, and something that looks like those overpriced lights they have at discos for kids, and a disappointing amount of people. What's the point of a party if I can easily walk to the kitchen? And what's the point of music in the first place if you can only afford a stereo that doesn't have enough bass to make the walls shake in rooms where I can't even hear the music?
And no drugs. Where are the drugs? I've been everywhere. The kitchen is my last resort. The overwhelming red almost makes you feel drunk automatically. Are these the only drugs we have? We barely have alcohol.
Man. I need to find whoever put this party together and teach them how to make it a fucking mess. If you don't risk getting the cops called because it sounds like someone is getting murdered, you're doing it wrong.
That's rule number one. Rule number two—the kitchen is the fun place. Considering only Kell and some girl is in the kitchen... yeah, pretty lame party.
Or maybe people didn't want the headache from the red, red, red.
The girl keeps talking to Kell when I step inside. I, going into the kitchen expecting something to actually be happening there, have no idea what to do. As previously stated, I'm great at making situations awkward because I frankly don't care if anyone finds it super awkward that I'm standing behind them and choking down Xanax while they're trying to study. But when it's two people, having a conversation, it just seems like I'm eavesdropping, which is both awkward and weird.
So, naturally, I go get some water—the only normal thing I can think to do.
"Who's this?" the girl asks.
I almost choke on the water, because I clearly haven't learnt that you can't drink and talk at the same time.
"This is Aiden, my roommate," Kell says. "And this is Emma."
He says it like he's mentioned her before. Me? I don't recall the name. Or, well, I do, I've met tons of Emmas, but not with light brown skin and curled hair. Not his Emma.
His Emma. Maybe my brain subconsciously remembers him telling me it's his girlfriend. Fucking hell, if that's the case, I'm an even shittier friend than I thought.
"He does a lot of drugs," Kell explains, "so don't expect him to remember things you say."
This man has known me for a few weeks and he can read me like a book. Damn.
