Boys of West Denton ✓

chapter seventeen

Harris

My head is pounding. Like, absolutely pounding. And my throat is beyond sore—I'm sensing a likely combination of frequent vomiting and intense thirst. My blinds are half-closed, and the sunlight peeking through is way too bright to be humane. My phone is right on my nightstand, thankfully. I check the time. Right before my eyes, it goes from 3:44 to 3:45.

There's a glass of water on the nightstand too, thankfully, right next to one of the blue Post-It notes from my desk. It reads in surprisingly messy handwriting Hey, Harris, I stayed till about 7 but had to go home, or my parents would murder me. You stopped throwing up around 3 so it wasn't too bad. Pls hydrate and call me when you're up. Hope you're okay. I'm here for you if you need anything. —Seb

I wrack my brain, trying to recall last night. Crying. I remember a lot of crying, all while someone held me. I can't remember if it was in the back of Seb's truck or in my bed. But I think I sobered up a few hours before Seb left, at least enough to remember his arms around me, holding me tight against him like he never wanted to let go. That definitely happened.

I sit up, trying to recall other information. When I try to rub the sleep out of my eyes, I wince at how sore they are. Yep. Got punched. Forgot about that. What happened after that?

A few things come to mind, like Bachata Girl, and Saanvi cussing someone out. Liam wiping the blood off my—

Liam.

I want to throw up again, although this time, for a different reason than pure over-intoxication. Holy shit. He tried, yesterday, he tried—I can't.

Holy shit.

I scramble out of my bed, kicking the covers off myself and catching my ankle on my sheets. I trip and fall down onto the cement floor, landing uncomfortably on my wrists. My heart is hammering straight through my chest. I can't breathe.

It couldn't have been that bad. I've got to be wrong.

That's it, I'm misremembering. I stand up, brush myself off, and glance down at the floor. I'm wearing a worn white cross-country shirt, and on the floor is my yellow shirt from last night. It smells disgusting, and there's blood all over the front of it. Which, great. I'm sure my mom can get it out, but I don't think she'll enjoy me explaining that I was wounded at yet another party.

She might be able to notice though. I turn on my phone's selfie cam to see how bad the bruising under my eyes is. And, yep. It's really bad. She will definitely be noticing. Tenderly, I tap my nose and wince. It hurts like a bitch, but upon further examination, I'm pretty sure it's not broken. So, if nothing else, at least there's that.

How can I explain this one to her?

And, honestly, forget just explaining it to my mom—how do I explain this to myself? I'm unsure of what happened, but one thing I know is that it wasn't good.

Liam wiping the blood off my neck, everything feeling cold and mushy; Evan's fist lit up a sickening green by the LED lights; Saanvi yelling at—at who, at me?

Ugh. Why can't I remember?

I'm trying to sort out what I want to say when I hear the basement door open. Mom's footsteps are louder than usual, signifying she either wants to let me know she's coming down so I can make myself decent, or she's pissed. I listen to a few more footsteps to be sure.

Oh, she is so pissed.

"Who was that boy I caught sneaking out at seven a.m.?" she asks as she rounds the corner, then gasps when she sees my face.