Sleep Magazine (Completed)

The Feeling: 1

Celia kept her distance from Grace for the rest of the night. As people gradually left to head to UMass or to other parties, the dwindling crowd in the kitchen seemed to make the nature of Grace and Stephen's relationship even more obvious. 

Though her sister had made it clear that she didn't mind the sideways glances or the whispers of gossip, Celia thought that she might spare herself some embarrassment by at least keeping her closest friends engaged in conversation at the far end of the kitchen, away from the spectacle that Grace, as it seemed to Celia, was now flaunting to her peers with an inebriated boldness.

Whenever Grace laughed too loudly—a shameless attempt to draw all eyes in the room to her position by the dutch door, just in time to witness her run a hand over Stephen's shoulder and down his arm—Celia raised her voice just enough to keep her friends' attention on her and whatever old, watered down anecdote her weary, buzzed memory could recollect. 

This charade between the two sisters created such an uncomfortable atmosphere for the remaining guests, particularly Celia's close friends, that Celia herself developed a headache from the taxing act of trying to mask her hostility toward Grace while also making it a point to ignore her completely. All the while, Celia's friends—not wanting to upset Celia any further, as they could plainly see that she was visibly distressed by her older sister's behavior—tried their best not to let on that they knew she was having a very hard time saving face.

Soon, the last bit of alcohol was rationed off into whatever mixers remained on the kitchen island and people threw their final drinks back quickly. With tipsy hugs and farewells, they walked briskly to the various doors around the kitchen and entryway, and exited the old house to continue on their separate paths for the remainder of the night, now having plenty of gossip to discuss with one another as small groups of friends drove or walked to their next destinations.

Celia also left the house among this larger exodus, promptly deciding that she identified, in that moment, more with the people quietly admonishing her, her sister, and Stephen than she did with her own flesh and blood. Her friends kindly invited her to their next stop—a frat house with notorious members who were equal parts crass, good looking, and uninhibited—but Celia politely declined, citing her worsening headache. 

Alone, she made her way down the dirt path that ran along the back of Stephen's house and out toward the barn, and would take her straight across another property before delivering her to her own backyard.

By the time she was halfway along the path, her headache had become so piercing that her thoughts subsequently sounded louder and angrier against the rhythm of blood pounding in her head. Grace had been right; Celia wished very badly that she had gone with AJ, if for no other reason than she at least would have been spared the embarrassment that occurred later on. She had felt like a complete fool since the moment she heard Katelynn call Grace and Stephen disgusting in the parlor, and in turn felt even more guilty because she herself agreed.

An air of helplessness surrounded Celia as she took in several deep breaths, determined not to cry. Though she was completely alone on the unlit path, she felt highly visible, comprehending the span of dark, open fields around her. She set her gaze on the shadowy tree line set far back behind several small, manicured hills that marked the stark transition of farmland to woods.

Just a few dozen yards into those woods ran a small brook where, she remembered, her brother and Stephen used to go fishing. She and Grace would tag along shamelessly, struggling to keep up with the pace of the older boys' long legs as they barreled across a freshly cut hayfield, and pretended that their small bare feet did not ache as they leapt across the short, prickly stalks. They would sit on the edge of the sunny brook with such awareness of their surroundings, each other, and themselves, that they could anticipate the exact pitch of their laughter escaping from their mouths seconds before one of the boys' lines snapped against the friction of an underwater root.