What We Saw(2)

This is not one of those situations.

When I woke up, I was pretty sure I’d managed to park the old pickup I inherited from Dad last year on top of my own head. A glimpse of the curtains as the room spun by confirmed I’m in my bedroom and not in the driveway. This allowed me to rule out a dinged-up Chevy Silverado as the source of my pain and work backward through the events of last night to find the true cause. I did so while holding one pillow over my head and moaning, facedown, into another. After several minutes of deliberation, I’m pleased to announce I’ve reached a verdict: I blame John Doone’s grandma.

If Betty Lee Troyer hadn’t decided to try sushi for the first time at a mall food court in Grand Island, Nebraska, a few days before Christmas, she wouldn’t have spent the last two weeks of December in the hospital. If her mother hadn’t been in the hospital, Margie Doone wouldn’t have postponed the family ski trip until spring break so she could rush to Grand Island. If the Doones had gone skiing over Christmas instead of spring break, John would’ve gone with them. Instead, he stayed home alone so he wouldn’t miss the final basketball practices before the state tournament. If John hadn’t had the house to himself, he never would’ve been allowed to throw a party that inspired its own hashtag. And if there had been no party last night, I wouldn’t have lost count after three shots of tequila, and wound up lying here terrified to open my eyes again.

I waiver back and forth between the fear of dying and the fear that I will not die—that instead this pain will continue indefinitely. There are a few snapshots of last night in my head—animated GIFs at the very best. No video so far. The only thing I remember for sure is more of a feeling than a conversation.

Something about Ben.

His arm around my waist, propping me up. His hand in the pocket of my shorts, fishing for my keys. His breath on my neck as he said he wasn’t letting me drive my truck home. I know we were on the sidewalk, but I can’t remember what I said back to him. Maybe “thank you”?

His cheek against mine. Spring breeze. Goose bumps. That grin.

“Sure,” he whispered. “What are friends for?”

I do remember one thing for certain: Ben, leaning in toward me. So close our foreheads touch. Closer than we’ve been in a long time.

It was different.

It was more.

More than chivalry. More than playing soccer as kids. More than just friends. The certainty of this is a laser, slicing through the thick fog of too much tequila. I replay the scene. This time I remember how close his lips were to mine.

And the hiccups.

The first one occurred at exactly that moment, his forehead resting against mine. Any other girl in any other town in any other state on any other sidewalk with any other guy—that’s a sure bet, right? I mean, forehead to forehead? You just close your eyes and lean in.

Not me.

Nope, one inch from the lips of a guy who’s had a few beers on a night when Coral Sands, Iowa, is the center of the universe? Kate Weston comes through with the hiccups. Just the way I roll.

He laughed as he pulled away, taking my keys with him.

Shit. The truck.

Did Ben drive me home in my truck or his? This thought pulls me into a panic. My stomach rolls like a ship in heavy seas, threatening to crest my tongue and spill across the rug. If I left my truck across town, I won’t have to worry about the alcohol killing me. My father will be happy to assist.

My phone chirps and flaps across the nightstand, a rooster that’s been crowing for the last ten minutes. Each new alert sends a rattle through the fossils I’ve arranged there, little petrified skeletons, three of the specimens for geology that Ben and I collected last fall. Who knew Rocks for Jocks would get us talking again? Eyes still closed, my fingers fumble for the phone, knocking a piece of coral to the carpet. Finally, I squint at the screen. Seven texts from Rachel Henderling.

The last one is a picture of me from last night.

It isn’t pretty.

I appear to be a member of the Cross-Eyed Zombie Invasion. There is a strand of my own hair stuck in the corner of my mouth, and my arm is thrown around Stacey Stallard’s shoulders like she’s my best friend.

We’re both holding tiny glasses upside down, and there’s a strange green stripe, which I can only hope is a lime, peeking out from between my lips where my teeth should be. Stacey’s eyes are wild and her cheeks are flushed, but a big smile is plastered across her face. If it weren’t for the bottle of Cabo Wabo tequila on the Doones’ kitchen island, she might be standing at the top of a mountain after a brisk hike, a cold wind in her face.

I just look trashed.

The phone buzzes in my hand. Rachel again:

DEF your new profile pic.

DELETE THAT NOW.

#NOW

LOL. OMG. Ok ok #DONE

Dunno. You look pretty hot.

Ugh. What. Just. Happened?

My phone rings the moment I press send.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Rachel’s voice is so perky I wince.

“What the hell are you doing up so early?” I croak.

“Those preschoolers don’t teach themselves Sunday school.”

“Will you be teaching them to make the margaritas you mixed last night?”

Rachel giggles. “You’re the one who switched to shots.”

“Which I would not have done if that margarita hadn’t gotten me hammered. I can’t believe they let you step foot in that church.”