The Man on the Moon (The Man Duology)

Chapter 3

The equivalent of Niagara Falls, in tears, cascaded down my face as soon as we reached Georgia's bedroom. Through my teary vision, I could barely recognize the room. Her bookshelf had been moved, it was now next to her window. Georgia wasn't exactly a bookworm but I should hand it to her - she owns a lot of books. Although, they're contemporary bullshit, like John Green, where the main characters fall in love and have spontaneous sex in Amsterdam. Not 'actual literature' as her parents would say. She had Pride and Prejudice on the top shelf, along with the Lord of the Rings and How to Kill a Mockingbird but those classics were clouded with the likes of The Fault in our Stars, Me before You and Paper Towns. Plus, she had picked them up at Waterstones two weeks ago because our future English Literature teacher told us to.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't one to judge a person on their bookshelf... Wait. Yes I was. That was exactly what I was doing.

Georgia's arm wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me into a tight embrace. "Please don't cry because then I'll start crying-"

There she blows.

We stood there for a few minutes blubbering like babies, arms wrapped around each other and noses buried deep into each other's neck crevices. Eventually, the tears stopped rolling and my neck was soaked with Georgia's own teardrops. She grabbed her sleeve with her fingers and pulled it so she had enough room to wipe her wet nose, removing all of the evidence that she was even crying in the first place.

"Do you know what time is it, Eleanor?" Georgia asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

I glanced at my watch, "Uh, it's almost 10 p-"

"This kind of time isn't on a watch," She lowered her voice and put her hand over my watch's face. It was as if she had a secret weapon to being happy after just crying so much that your head was pulsating. "There's only one man we need in our lives."

Ah. Jack Daniels. Now that was a man I could tolerate.

Georgia pulled out a bottle from her secret alcohol stash, located under her bed, grinning from ear to ear. The thick, black label made my mind absently wonder to my Dad's words of wisdom. My own grin shifted to a disappointed frown. Politely, I declined Georgia's offer and let her down the whole bottle herself. I'm not actually sure, to this day, why she felt the need to drown her sorrows but she was doing it anyway - and fast.

"Have you eaten?" I asked nervously, having the urge to bite my fingernails.

She shook her head while rapidly doing the routine of swallowing a new gulp of Jack Daniel's and then going back for more.

Cautiously, I jumped to my feet and tugged the bottle from her lips.

"What are you doing?" Georgia managed to gargle through her mouthful.

"You think this is clever?" My words sounded cold.

"It tastes good," Her voice had gone squeaky, as if she was about to burst into tears again. Her words began to slur, "Since when have you been a party pooper?"

"Ever since it affected your well-being."

Georgia scoffed and plonked down on her bed. She had consumed half of the bottle before I physically removed it from her grasp. Curiously, I flipped the partially empty bottle over onto its front and peered at the back. A full bottle contained 28 units of alcohol; Georgia must have not consumed that many.

The power of the whiskey didn't settle into her system until 15, or so, minutes later. She began talking to herself, not being able to say a full sentence without getting distracted, and singing extremely loud. Every time she decided to bellow out a song, which manifested in her nose and exited through her mouth; it wasn't exactly Celine Dion material. I had to respectfully remind her that we weren't at the X-Factor auditions. We were, in fact, at her parents' house while they were asleep. Well, probably not anymore.