Boys of West Denton ✓

chapter eighteen

Sebastian

"It's fine," Saanvi says. "Believe me, this is, like, the ultimate hangover cure. He'll be so happy."

"Okay but you can't just decide that," I tell her. "Since when have you been hungover?"

She rolls her eyes, pointedly. "You don't know everything about me."

"Um, don't I?"

"Remember that time you got sick and couldn't go to that debate tournament in Marshall?"

I fake gasp. "You didn't."

She just snickers, and I go back to staring at Harris' front door. "Do you think he's even home?" I ask her. We've been standing out here for at least three minutes. "What if he choked on his vomit and died in his sleep and we're going to jail forever, before we burn in hell for the rest of eternity?"

"Seb," Saanvi says, side-eyeing me, "it's not that deep."

"But it is." I actually feel terrible about leaving him this morning, but I had no other choice. He hadn't thrown up in hours, and he'd stopped crying finally. I'd felt horrible the whole time. He was just so freaking out of it. It was awful. I've never seen someone that under the influence before. Beyond catching me off guard, it was more concerning than anything. When his mom caught me on my way out, I couldn't lie to her—I told her I was just making sure Harrison was okay. After a moment's hesitation, she'd simply thanked me and sent me home.

I'd texted Harrison that we were coming to bring him some treats—some cookies Saanvi and I baked this morning, and some yuja tea that Saanvi swears by, her older sister's favorite tea she told her she'd found at a boba shop near her college. "It's life-changing," she'd promised. I just hope Harris thinks so too. He hasn't seen the text, so....

"Maybe try ringing the doorbell again?" she offers. "He might just not want to see anyone right now, which is—"

The door swings open, and there's Harris, looking completely worse for wear.

"Hey," he says, nodding once.

His hair is disheveled, one side of his head looking significantly flatter than the other. His eyes are swollen up and bruised underneath, and he looks ... sleepy. I notice that he hasn't changed out of the T-shirt we changed him into when we got back last night, or how he's in the same flannel pants. His eyes are puffy and red, and I have to shove down the urge to give him a tight hug.

"Hey," Saanvi says, her voice full of pity so obvious that I wince inwardly, "are you doing okay?"

Harris blinks. There's no Band-Aid on his forehead anymore, but the bruises beneath his eyes are dark blueish-purple, already yellowing slightly on the far edges of his cheekbones. "I'm ... I'm all good. Why?"

I don't know what to say to that. Neither does Saanvi. "Do you remember much of last night?" I offer, because I don't know what else to say. "A lot went down. We just wanna make sure you're okay."

He waves me off, maybe too quickly. "I'm completely fine, don't worry."

"You're sure?"

"I'm positive," he says.

I'm having trouble wrapping my brain around this, him being "completely fine." Last night, I was here almost the entire night, holding him and soothing him while he kept throwing up water and dry pieces of toast. "And you remember everything?"

"Why wouldn't I?" He tries to give me a reassuring smile. My heart pangs as I realize, for the first time, that Harrison is a god-awful liar.

"We bring nectar and ambrosia," Saanvi says, holding up the tiny pink mesh bag full of the mint-chocolate chip cookies we made along with the travel thermos of yuja-cha. "Perfect hangover cures. In case you're, y'know, hungover. After last night. Because ... yeah. It'll do just the trick."