Mess You Made

27.

Miguel.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. Spray my fragrance over my neck and let my tie hang undone around the back of my neck because I've never learnt how to do it — don't really want to learn. I like when the girls do it for me.

Bit of an issue, though, because I don't know if it's obvious how much weed I've smoked. I'm stood here now when I realise how bad of an idea that might have been. Now that I'm fifteen minutes away from leaving for a formal event. Fuck.

An unhealthy amount on my way home from basketball practice. Too many joints, one after another. I know my limits. Exceeded them on purpose tonight, I think and I'm not meant to be smoking on weeks where we have heavy practices anyway. In an effort to make my head feel less fucked, I kept smoking as a hopeful solution. I was doing it for the greater good, to be honest, not to be selfish so I'd be fine for the event tonight.

I purse my lips, look down to my messages with Malibu.

She's been MIA most of the day where I've been trying to convince her to come with me. Offered to take Marci with us, even, but she's adamant. When we texted in the morning, she said she's not bailing because she never bails on Cristian and he can't watch their little sister. I can't exactly complain — she has a life full of responsibility and I'm whining about going to a formal event alone?

But I don't want to be here.

I don't.

Would rather be with her somewhere, even if we're doing nothing, even if it's sat on a rooftop or outside a gas station. I need my head quiet. It's been quiet for a while with her.

I can't show that to anyone either, need to suck it up before they realise. I pull at the white collar of my shirt because it feels suffocating. I pull again, can't tell if it's too tight or if the weed's making my throat drier — and I take a glance at myself in the mirror. Eyes are too red. Face looks pale, pupils blown as shit.

I head into my room and rummage around in the drawers beside my bed for my aviators. Black Ray Bans. Slip them over my eyes and steady myself for a second because it isn't like the day's a surprise. I've known June 3rd was coming. Now, I just need to not act like a pussy about it which should be fine — it's a boring black-tie event, I'll endure it, come home. Who the fuck cares? I don't care. Do you see me caring? Nah.

"Need your tie doing?"

I turn around at Violet's voice. I give her a smile where she walks in the doorway, and glance at her outfit that she came to show and explain to me a few hours ago. All the girls are wearing designer Clio Peppiat and Violet's is the white embellished dress. Sequins everywhere. Looks like it's made of crystals.

Her heels are pre-owned Chanel, apparently and they're her favourite ever because they're timeless, Mig, go with anything — although they do hurt a teeny bit, but beauty is pain, no?

"You look beautiful." I smile, "It all came together."

"As do you." She gives me a proud smile back, because she dressed us all in Tom Ford suits for tonight. She gently rests her white purse atop my bed, heels clicking as she glides forwards into the room. Eyes are as gentle as they always are as she stands in front of me — hair half tied in a white ribbon.

So small. We didn't used to be that far from each other's heights, I was always taller than her but now she's tiny as fuck.

"I know you're not looking forward to tonight—"

"Who said that?" I say, "I'm pumped."

She fights a smile and starts to straighten my tie, "But we're glad you're coming. I miss you as of recent." She tilts her head, focusing as she loops the fabric, "Did you not bring a date?"