Summer Sanders is going through it. The pressures of school are mounting, and her home life is completely falling apart. Feeling bored and lonely on a Saturday night, she decides to get buzzed and surprise her hookup buddy with her best lingerie. Th...
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I'M SCOWLING AT her. I don't mean to, I know I look harsh, but I can't help my instinctive reaction.
She's waltzed into my room, she's thrown up on my bed, and now she lays across her own pool of vomit in deep sleep.
I don't know if I'm more concerned or disgusted. My disgust may be more from reflecting on myself than her. Was this how I was? Is this how people felt dealing with me? A mix of burden and second hand embarrassment watching someone stutter and stir until they've completely lost control of themselves. The thought sends shivers down my spine.
I gaze back at the half empty bottle of tequila burning on my drawer. Why did she have to come into my room, especially with that? And worst of all today, when I've spent all day kicking myself for the disappointing game last night.
Its presence is more annoying than tempting. This entire ordeal is annoying. The minute she stepped into my room, my routine—my structure—went out the door.
I pace back and forth, sliding my hand through my hair to massage my scalp. It serves no purpose—my busy mind isn't slowing and my temper isn't evening.
With a sigh, I once again pause before my bed to check on the girl. My index and forefinger lightly presses against the side of her neck to make sure her pulse is fine. I then reach down to push aside some of the wild curls that cover her face.
Her thick eyebrows are furrowed, like she's in deep thought even while unconscious. Her cheekbones are high, and despite everything, still hold a glow to them. It might just be whatever makeup girls put on their face, but if that's the case, I would say it was money well spent. Her lips are plump, brown on the top and pink on the bottom. They slightly part to allow her to inhale and exhale the deep breaths she takes.
She's beautiful, without a doubt. I just wish she could go be beautiful and drunk somewhere else, like her own room where her vomit would feel much more at home.
I need to talk to someone and get myself straight. I grab my phone off my desk, checking the recent notifications on my front screen.
Darren: The party's not even that lit for real. Like I said, let me know if you wanna shoot some hoops or grab a burger instead.
I reply to who may be considered my only friend on the team, ensuring for the fifth time that I have no problem with him partying with the rest of the guys. Just because it's not my scene, doesn't mean he needs fill himself with guilt every time the other guys want to hang out.
Dad: Haven't talked in a while, call me when you get the chance. Love you.
Love you. The words give me a weird buzz, especially coming from my dad. My dad has never been the "love you" type. He grunts, purses his lips, and if I'm lucky, gives me a pat on the head every once in a while when he feels I've done something good. When he decided to adopt the phrase a year ago, mostly due to the push of my stepmother, I've found that it leaves me more unsettled than warm-hearted.
