Mess You Made

10.

Malibu.

I'm in a sort of drunken haze when I slip into the bathroom afterwards.

He leaves, like he should and I spend some time drinking from that Macallan bottle until I decide to get dressed. Dwelling in the comedown that I knew would come. That smacks into me like a fucking brick.

Because I did it for the momentary high, and then it's gone as quick as it came. None of it was enough. Maybe for about three minutes of it — and so I did all of that, for three minutes.

I don't consider it before, when the whole world feels balanced on this one need. I don't consider the regrets in the aftermath.

I wince at the bright artificial light of the bathroom as I walk in unsteadily, try to clean myself up, the silence so loud in here that I grimace at how unsettling it is.

I glance into the mirror, which I shouldn't have.

My lips are swollen from him kissing them. I check my neck but there are no visible hickeys. My eyes look fucking horrifying. Dead-like.

And then I feel it.

Nausea rolling up within me, not just my stomach. But every part of me, extending to all my limbs like a physical reckoning. It's happened a lot quicker this time and I get to the toilet, keeling over it as I throw up whatever was inside me. It burns my throat because of the whiskey and for a while, it doesn't stop. My whole body starts to hurt and only then does it start to cease.

I use tissues to wipe my mouth. Find some mouthwash. Do anything except look at myself in the mirror. Every movement feels slow, my bones feel miserable. I feel worse.

I right myself as much as I can before I exit the bathroom, back into the dark room with the rustled bedsheets that I want to leave immediately.

I'm about to walk to the door, but it bumps open before I can. The guy's back opened it, since a girl's wrapped around his waist, turns them effortlessly so she's pinned to the wall right fucking next to me — and then I realise who it is.

Oh, fuck.

They realise someone's there. I watch the way he pulls back, lips still touching hers as he tilts his head towards me. Swollen lips, neck already red with kisses. His brows furrow before those hazel eyes flash with recognition. Before any of us can register anything, before Miguel can open his mouth, I leave. Rush the fuck out of there, and away because I don't need to see that.

All I need to do now is get home. Call Cris, maybe, but he'll be so fucking mad. I don't know.

I don't know.

Five minutes? I walked into this mansion, and it took maybe five minutes for me to be upstairs, in someone's bed.

I manage to push past people, trying to get out of this place that's increasingly crowded. And then a hand wraps around my wrist, turning me around. I almost fly into someone's body, and my instincts shoots to high alert, about to shove them until Miguel's face ducks down amidst the crowd.

Steady hazel eyes finding mine. I suck in a sharp breath.

His brows pinch, speaking over the music, "I called your name, like five times—"