Solace In The Silence ✓✓

chapter 32

"YOU LOOK LIKE shit," Angie declared, holding out the door a little wider so I could brush past her. I scowled internally, glad I'd avoided mirrors at all costs for the last twenty-four hours.

"Says the girl still in her pajama's at noon," I pointed out, my lips quirking, "and is that a Dorito stuck in your hair? What did you do, put your face in the bag?"
"Whoa," she muttered, lifting her hands in surrender but laughing as she did so. Then she combed a hand through her blonde hair, grinning when she discovered said Dorito. "I never said I wasn't looking gross, either. That's why you're here, isn't it? Strength in numbers and all that. Hey, listen"—her voice lowered to a whisper, and obviously whatever she was about to say was not supposed to be common knowledge to her parents—"I may have found a bottle of tequila left over from my party last month. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"When in doubt, drink it out," I answered with maybe a bit too much vehemence. My devil-may-care attitude was a new development; most likely the result of hitting rock bottom. Hence why I'd suddenly decided to throw my no-alcohol rule to the wind.
Wherever Angie led, I tended to follow, and vice versa. That was just part of the Best Friend Code—the unwritten rule of our friendship. Besides, I wanted nothing more than to escape everything that was Jake Watford, and walking past his old bedroom hadn't exactly been the best start.
"You can forget about my brother," she said, as if reading my mind.

Heading further down the hall, we entered her bedroom. "And I'll try not to dwell on my impending homelessness. Sound good?" Kneeling down in front of her bedside table, she pulled out the bottom drawer and jerked the bottle of tequila upright.
I gave an enthusiastic nod, watching her as she took a big, long swig straight from the bottle. She winced, emitting a light cough when she came up for air again. I'd never seen Angie like this—so forlorn and off-kilter, too.

Gone was my bubbly best friend who had the uncanny ability to put a positive spin on literally anything.
Reminded of what she'd been through lately, a sick feeling pitched in my stomach. I'd been preoccupied, studying for midterms, racking up the mileage on my car, and functioning on virtually zero sleep while Angie had been going through her own version of hell. I felt guilty for being so distracted, especially when her situation was a tad different to mine—the worse kind.
"What are you planning to do about that, by the way? I mean, where will you go when the sale goes through?" I asked.

She glanced away, betraying all her uncertainties. "I'm still trying to work that out," she mumbled soberly, shoving the bottle at me. "Still praying for a miracle. Jake's only got a single apartment, and his lease isn't up for another six months. So, despite his efforts, that's a no-go, and I'm fresh out of options."
"Maybe you should move in with me. You could stay in Elvis' room," I told her, the suggestion flying out of my mouth before I'd had the chance to curb it. "I mean, I'd have to check with my parents first, but if you're desperate, that could be a last resort."

"I don't know. It wouldn't feel right..." She trailed off, crossing her legs as she got comfortable on the bed.
"At least think about it," I insisted, nudging her gently. "To be honest, you'd be doing me a favor. I don't know how much longer I can handle his room being some kind of shrine. It's verging on creepy now. I can't go in there without feeling like I'm hanging out in a mausoleum. If you moved in, we could clean it out, give it a makeover. Something tells me Elvis would've wanted that."

Angie stared at me for a moment's pause, scrutinizing my face for any sign of reluctance. "All right, I'll think about it," she conceded, her expression softening slightly. "You know something I just realized? You don't talk about Elvis with me. Like ever. Not since his funeral."

Her words surprised me so much that I almost dropped, and spilled, the tequila all over her comforter. Where was this coming from?
"I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. I just..."
"No, it's fine. What you said is true... I don't—didn't—talk about him for a really long time," I confessed. I skulled some tequila to help my jittery nerves. The flames of liquor gave me second-degree burns somewhere between my throat and my sternum, and I scrunched up my nose. After I'd recovered from the attack on my vocal chords, I continued, "I guess, for the most part, I felt like I couldn't, not even to the counselor at school. I knew what everyone was thinking about the accident... that it was Elvis and Brian's fault." I was forced to relive those memories, all the tainted shows of sympathy. To remember why I stopped talking about it in the end.