sign {h.s.}

capítulo oito

"HE'S AN ASSHOLE. Like, a real, proper, self-righteous asshole." I rant, the exasperation clear in my voice as I take a vicious slurp of soup from my spoon.

"Okay," Caleb drags out the word, letting out a long breath. The pressure of the sound overwhelms me and I pull the phone away from my ear.

Momentarily, I am overcome with the desire to see my brother—to be in his direct presence. Even before I moved to college, I didn't really live with my brothers. Caleb technically speaking hasn't officially moved out, but he has been living with his girlfriend now and all of his important mail gets sent there. Christian has been moved out for a while now. Connor and I were the only two living at home, and in that time we got close. Of course, Caleb had been the one to answer his phone when I had called out of a desperate need to rant. After all: beggars can't be choosers.

I'd made no attempt to hide my abhorrence towards Harry from my family. Even if I wasn't close with them—which, I am—I don't think that I would be able to hide a dislike that is this odorous. Each member of my family is up to date on the ways of the curly-haired British man. Likewise, each has a slightly different impression of him: my mother, the saint, is partial towards my patience, my brothers share more or less the same idea: violence. Christian thinks I should slap him. He is insistent that if a woman were to ever slap him, he would know that he had fucked up and would accordingly reevaluate. My mother's draw had dropped when he said that and had promptly removed herself from the conversation. Connor, likely bored out of his mind as a result of suddenly being the only child, is insistent that he will come up and rough Harry around. Entertaining of an idea as I find that to be, I politely declined on the grounds that it would probably get us in trouble.

"Earth to Cassidy?" My brother interjects, his voice slicing through my thoughts.

"Sorry. Hi."

"Hi," Caleb laughs, and the sound puts me at ease in a way that I haven't been since I left home. In high school, I had a handful of friends. As we moved on to do different things, we lost touch. They all went to colleges and I was traveling. While traveling I met a couple of acquaintances, none of whom I ever kept in touch with. Distance had been a problem during that era of my life—particularly with the boyfriend that I split from as a result of the miles between us. Through it all though: I've always had my brothers. Not having them here has affected me more than I thought it would. "So, what happened?"

I have always appreciated Caleb's tolerance. Caleb and I are different in many ways, but we are similar in being the middle children of the family. Accordingly, we have some tolerance to bullshit and drama. Such a skillset is advantageous and invaluable to him in this moment. "I went to this frat part last night, and—" but, I don't have the chance to finish my sentence. Just as I begin to launch into the full story, my phone begins to buzz against my ear. I pull it away for a moment to look down at the piece of technology. Connor's profile picture flashes across the screen, telling me that he is trying to call me as well. "Hold on, Con's calling me. I'll call you back." Without waiting for Caleb's response, I hang up our call and switch over to the call from Connor.

Hardly ten minutes ago, I had texted our family group chat with the simple request that someone call me. I'd been annoyed. Though, annoyed seems too light of a word to apply to the situation. Aggrieved seemed a better word; a ten dollar word as my high school English teachers would have called it.

This morning, I had woken up with a pounding headache and an upset stomach. My nose coiled up at the lingering, foul smell of a frat house that clung to my clothing. I'd not showered when I returned home last night and I had made no effort to wipe off any of my makeup. More intoxicated than I had been in quite some time, I was unpleasantly reminded of the obnoxiously repugnant feeling of a hangover: the consuming feeling of it, the way that it claims your entire body. Immediately I was aware of the rank and rancid smell of my own breath and was further dismayed by my general inability to remedy the situation. Motion so early in the morning appeared an optimistic task for my nauseous body. The churning of my stomach took me back to my first hangover—waking up on Jack and Nina's couch and blinking away the sunlight, the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen and my father's friend Matt immediately alerting the masses with a chant of: she's alive!