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FIVE
lost and found
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LOCATING A MISSING person is difficult to begin with, but doing so while your blood is virtually ninety-eight percent alcohol is even harder.
I just had to be the one to suggest the bet that whoever threw up first had to streak on the beach. And of course, because my body seemed to be unable to handle a lot liquor in a short period of time, I found Giselle's comforting hand rubbing circles on my back and pulling wavy hair out of my face as I emptied the contents of my stomach into Isaiah's toilet.
No one else had thrown up-yet-so naturally, I lost my own bet.
Figures.
Hours later and cool grains of sand in places it didn't belong, I was wearing clothes again, and the five of us had begun to feel the effects of alcohol in our veins.
In fact, we were-well I was-so drunk that no one seemed to notice that the usual six person crew had lost a member.
The temperature had significantly dropped since the day time, and it was especially cool by the ocean.
I didn't know what time it was, and my head was so full with two hundred dollar liquor that I didn't even care. The alcohol was like a hazy film hanging in front of my cognition, dissolving as time passed but not quick enough.
My head rolled to the size lazily, and the image of Giselle, Tristan, Isaiah and Rosie breezed in and out of my line of vision. Everything was blurry; my brain was unsure of whether it wanted to let me see, or if it wanted to let the alcohol do its job.
I barely made out Giselle's lips moving, mostly because the sound of the waves was too loud. But also because I couldn't focus on two things at once at the moment.
"Did you say something?" I didn't even know the words left my mouth until a few seconds later.
I was definitely the drunkest one here.
Tristan and Isaiah were arguing in some sort of testosterone war, and Rosie was so focused on a piece of her blonde hair that you would've thought it was her ticket to marrying rich(er).
Giselle was slightly buzzed, but not wrecked like me, because she didn't usually drink with us. Giselle was usually the group mother who needed to stay sober so she could pull us out of whatever six-foot-deep crater of trouble we got ourselves into.
"I think Zeke is like... not here," she repeated slowly, and again my comprehension of her words was delayed.
I sat up, looking around. "Uh, what?"
"Tristan! Isaiah! Get your dumb asses over here," Giselle yelled, her voice carrying over the waves in a way only she could do.
The guys stopped fucking around and looked up, staggering their way over with laughter on their tongues. Even Rosie snatched her attention away from her blonde locks, looking over in confusion.
