The Clique

Part 3

This is the part where the boy falls even harder for the girl, if that was even possible in the first place.

 

Dinner tonight?

 

The two words that he had been waiting for for the past three months. The two words that he had been dreaming about and hoping for for the past 90 days. And now that time was here.

And he was throwing up.

Apparently drinking your cares away on a Tuesday night was not the most appropriate activity to endure. Especially when there was no one else to do it with. But now there was somebody who wanted to see him who wanted to spend time with him and he was sat here in the tile floor of his dingy apartment with his hair in his eyes because he hadn't had a haircut in who knows how long with the taste of rotten oranges in his mouth or some reason and he really just wanted to cry because there was this perfect person thinking about him for once and he had been thinking of that certain someone for the past 90 days and Harry really wanted to cry.

But he didn't cry because Harry was a strong twenty two year old man who didn't cry over girls anymore. At least he thought he was.

He shed a few tears anyway.

Would love to, but currently regurgitating my day's intake of beverages. Another time maybe? x

 

 

So what if he added the little x in there. Nobody had to know.

He leaned his head back against the door to the bathroom; legs sprawled out in front of him. Hangovers were not his specialty. Not at all.

He remembered the first time he had a hangover. He was seventeen, fresh out of school and went to a graduation party or something along those lines. He drank until he saw red and danced until he passed out. While it was one of the highest points of his life, it was also one of the lowest ones for the trust his mother put in him. His sister couldn't stop laughing when his mother made him clean the house spotless before he was allowed to go upstairs to sleep.

He didn't even try to stand up, in fear of collapsing onto the floor again like he had multiple previous times before then. He wiped his mouth with the back of his palm and reached up to the counter and grabbed a towel. He wiped his face down with it (throwing up always made him sweat) and lay back against the door.