The Cascading Waves of Caden Lee

16

SCARLETT PARKER

Me and Caden had been texting back and forth the past few days. Ever since we had exchanged numbers, the steady flow of conversation has been as smooth as butter. It feels right, but I know better than to assume a persons character based on their dialogue.

Speaking of that, he invited me to a party this Saturday, or, tomorrow. I hesitated, as I always seem to do nowadays, but ended up agreeing in the end. Besides, as Tammy keeps breathing down my neck, I need to loosen up a little. Nobody likes a girl who's more into her thoughts than the shots that leave a burn in her throat and a tingle down her spine.

"Scarlett! Get down here!" I hear my Mothers high-pitched, annoying tone echo from the downstairs dining room. With a huff, I get up off the safety of my bed and stumble down the wooden twirling staircase; not even bothering to hold onto the black elaborate railing from how often I've come down these steps. She's dressed in a wine-red knee-length dress, her gold expensive jewelry hanging from her thin neck and ears.

Her slender perfectly manicured finger points to the pair of black boots resting by the front doorway, "What's with this? You're going to get dirt on our marble flooring. You know this." I resist the urge to roll my eyes, I could care less about our marble floors, but push her aside nonetheless and grab my black boots. Making my way back up the stairs, I glance at her outfit, "What's with the dress? Going somewhere?"

Her lips spread into a smug, self-satisfied smile, "another date with Steve, you know him, correct?" His name causes an audible groan to slip from my lips, Steve. He's the perfect match for my Mother, and not in the good way.

"Yes," I say, "are you coming home late tonight?" She snorts, leveling me with a look, "I don't see how that's any of your business, is it, Scarlett?" And she's out the door before she has the chance to hear my mumbled response of "Just asking...". Her Mercedes Benz rolling down the driveway and leaving me to stand dumbfounded on the third step of the staircase. Okay, then.

I don't know why I'm surprised. It's not anything new. Me and Nate dealt with it our whole lives, and the residing anger I felt of him leaving me is long gone, leaving only a full ache in my chest and the thought that I understand. We had both lived life in the same shoes, or, at-least, while at home. There's things I'll never know about him, he took those secrets to the grave. Literally.

Besides, I'm not sure I want to know them. To get closure is to accept the fact that I'm stuck here alone and he's never coming back. The thought of that leaves a churn in my stomach, so I make my way back down the stairs and towards our kitchen. I'm home alone, so I don't need to worry about dulling the clattering of glass against glass as I slip the tequila bottle from our alcohol cabinet.

I'm not oblivious, or stupid, I know coping with my thoughts this way isn't healthy. I've been to enough grief counseling sessions already; not by my mother, never by her, by the school. She's more of a 'forget it ever happened' sort of girl. I grab a Glass from the dishwasher and make my way upstairs, shutting my door and slipping back into my bed. I pour the clear liquid into my cup, not even bothering to measure it with shots, and slip the glass bottle under my bed once the cup is filled.

The first few sips leave me scrunching my nose as if I had just eaten a lemon, but the more my vision blurs and my limbs loosen the more I find the taste bearable; the burn crave-able. I try not to do this too much, and I'm far from an alcoholic, but it's one of the only ways I can get away from this. And if that's going down the same exact rabbit hole Nate did, then so be it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The headache that pounds through my skull the next morning reminds me of why I don't drink often. My mascara clumps together when I flutter my eyes open to the blinding sunlight, and the world seems to spin as I sit up in the safety of my sheets. The pounding of my head increases. A text notification from Caden almost brings a smile to my face, but ultimately ends up resting in its disgruntled-hangover frown.

CADEN:
You need a ride to the party today??

I don't, but the thought that he considered asking me if I did is sweet. That he thought of me without having any underlying reasoning, or, I hope he doesn't.

SCARLETT:
No!! I'm fine, but thanks anyways. <3

Oh my god. Why did I just send that? What is wrong with me? We've barely been texting for a few day's and I send him a heart. It's muscle memory at this point, but what if he reads too deep into it and finds it weird, and then the whole locker project will end in awkward silence between us and then we'll never talk again?

Okay, Scarlett. Calm down. The vibrating of my phone nearly has me jumping out of bed and throwing my phone out the window, but the pounding of my head saves me from that one.

CADEN:
Of course. <3

OH MY GOD. I re-check the message nearly a dozen times, my eyes bulging out of my skull. Does this mean anything deeper?! Okay, I know I sound like a hypocrite for trying to find a deeper meaning into his heart, but can you blame me? Like, not to stereotype, but I've never been sent a heart by a boy who doesn't have some sort of romantic attraction for me. That's always been a girl thing! But I have to remember that he just reciprocated my actions. It doesn't mean anything. I just need to stay calm.

I let my screen go black so I don't think about it anymore, and get up to go take a shower. The walk to the bathroom could be compared to an expedition up Mt. Everest, what with the chills running down my spine and the vertigo flooding my vision. After turning the shower dial to hot, I open up my bathroom cabinets and begin to shuffle through the pill bottles resting on the lower shelf. I bring the Advil bottle down, the red pills clattering against the surface, and pause. I don't know what it is, but it looks emptier somehow. My eyes shift from bottle to bottle, searching for the reason, but ultimately shake my head with a sigh and close the cabinet.

I'm sure it's nothing. Besides, who's been in my bathroom cabinet? My mom hasn't, or at least I hope she hasn't. She would tell me if she needed one of her medication bottles that she keeps in my bathroom cabinet, but I also can't undermine anything of her. I'm sure she'd do many things that seem unfathomable to me.

Swallowing down two tablets, I let my clothes fall to the bathroom floor and step into the shower. The warm water hits my skin and releases a sigh of relief from me. Thick vapor curls out from my shower and fogs the mirror, so that once I step onto the damp tiles of my bathroom and wrap a towel around my chest, I have to wipe the mirror with the surface of my hand to get a clear look at myself. Black mascara streaks down my skin, which is what I guess I get for taking a shower without washing my face first.

I do it then, lathering the foaming soap into my fingers and rubbing it into my skin; rinsing It off soon after and patting my face dry with a towel. My skin feels damp and cold after, and it helps to wake me up from the hangover-induced zombie state I'm in.

I end up napping for the next 5 hours, waking up slightly less-groggy and with 3 hours to get ready for the party. I can feel the excitement running through my veins as I get up to get myself a glass of water; but also the bone-deep nervousness. I don't plan on drinking too much in order to not make a complete fool of myself, but you never know, and with Caden being there and all...

All in all, I might just kill myself if I embarrass myself in front of him tonight. Almost wincing at my choice of words, the reasoning for last nights drinking not yet forgotten, I turn my TV on And scroll through Netflix.

I have some time to kill before I have to start getting ready.