The Weight of Us

2.

I wake up at five-thirty this time, right when the birds start to chirp and the trickle of car lights from the street begin to illuminate my bedroom walls. I slept a whole three hours last night, maybe three and a half. Three and a half hours is a lot better than one, which is what I've been getting the last week and a half.

I lean across my bed and tap the home screen to my phone. Several notifications pop up: Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook, Email. Ten unread text messages: three from my best friend Cassidy, one from Dad, two from that Swedish guy I met at a party last week (Caleb I think?), and four from my older brother Luke.

Well, fuck.

Cassidy:

12:30 am: Where the fuck are you? It's so loud in this place.

12:45 am: This creepy guy is hitting on me SOS

1:00 am: I'm calling us an uber for us, come outside !!!!!

I smile and glance over at Cassidy's bed, where she's passed out in her party clothes on top of the comforter.

Dad:

10:04 pm: I'll call you sometime soon. Take care.

I resist the urge to throw my phone across the room and delete the text instantly.

Random Swedish Guy:

12:32 am: let's meet up i want 2 see u

2:43 am: don't b hard to get. U know we had fun last week.

I also delete these messages. And his contact number.

Last, but not least...

Luke:

11:12 pm: who are you going out with? Be safe.

11:13 pm: if you go to the bars i'm telling my friends to keep an eye out for you

11:16 pm: don't blackout tonight Chlo it's been two days in a row

11:25 pm: I'll be at Josie's if you need me

At least I didn't black out last night. Luke would be proud.

I text a quick reply to Luke, telling him I made it home safe, and plug my phone back into the charger.

I lie awake until the sun comes up, staring at the ceiling, a familiar numbness falling over me. Dark thoughts come and go, no matter how hard I try to keep them away.

At 6:30 am, Cassidy sits up in her bed, hungover and scowling.

"What the fuck? What time is it?"

"Early enough," I reply.

Cassidy stands up and wiggles around, her long legs taking up the space between our beds. "I'm still drunk."

"You have too much energy right now, Cass."

She leaps onto my bed and pushes down on me, her laugh a sharp sound in the early morning buzz. "Wakey, wakey, little Chlo. Time for some coffee."

I attempt to give her the evil eye, but her smile is too infectious. I break into a smile. "Fine. Whatever. I'll make us coffee."

Cassidy and I share an apartment in the student apartment complexes one mile off campus. We both attend the renowned Elysian University in Southern California, known for its competitive business and pre-law schools. I'm studying corporate law, and Cassidy is in the art program. I wanted to go into film, but Dad refused to pay for college if I didn't enter the business program.

We just finished our sophomore year about one week ago. I should feel better, with the stress of finals off my shoulders, but the pit of anxiety that has resided in my chest since I was fifteen has only gotten worse these past few days. Maybe it's the alcohol. Or maybe it's my own damn fault.

I set our coffee mugs onto the kitchen counter; Cassidy's with no creamer and one spoonful of sugar, mine with lots of vanilla creamer and a pack of sugar. "What time are you headed to work?"

She shrugs, taking of sip of coffee, pieces of light blonde hair covering her face. "My boss said I should cover a shift this morning, but there's no way I can do it. Not when I can still taste vodka in my throat."

Cassidy got a summer job working at a beachside restaurant in Elysian Beach, about twenty minutes from campus by car. She already hates it, but that's because any work is hard work for Cassidy. She comes from a wealthy East Coast family. As much as I love the girl, she's never worked a day in her life before last week.

I give her a look. "Cass, it's been one week. You can't skip work. You'll get fired."

"They can't do that!"

"Yes, they can. They don't care where you come from."

She huffs. "This fucking sucks."

"This, my friend, is life."

Cassidy finishes her coffee and puts her pink mug in the sink. "I hate when you talk like that."

I feign a look of faux-innocence. "Like what?"

"All sad and mopey."

I shoot her a smile. "I'm kidding. Now go shower and get dressed for work. I'm forcing you to go."

She groans, grabbing a banana off the counter, and heads back into our room to change into her waitress clothes.

I collapse onto the couch in front of the TV and sip my coffee, staring out the window, a tall sycamore tree in the middle of the courtyard below us. I love this time of the morning. When the air holds an eerie stillness, particles of dust floating in the air like stars. It's during moments like these that I lose my sense of self. I'm not Chloe Walsh, girl with no mother and a famous, poker-playing father who would rather down a bottle of whiskey than spend time with his kids. I'm not the girl who was drugged at a high school party, the one who woke up in a random bed when she was fifteen, naked, with bruises covering her neck and arms. I'm not the girl who would rather stare at the ceiling and feel nothing than go out into the world and try to feel something.

During quiet mornings like this, when the world feels frozen and delicate, I am five years old, waiting for my mother to come cuddle on the couch with me, her coffee breath hot on my cheek, kissing my face because one night was too long to go without hugging me. She is not dead. I am not numb.

Then car horns start to blare, our neighbors upstairs begin to shout at each other, and I'm reminded of who I am. I take a sip of my coffee and turn the TV on, clicking through channels until I settle on an old Western movie.

Cassidy rushes into the kitchen, grabbing her bag and a bottle of water. "Alright, bye. Love you." As she opens the door, she turns to me. "We're going out again tonight. Be ready by eight."

And she's gone.