You'd Be Mine(31)

“Gaaaaaahhhhhh,” I groan, rubbing my sweating hands down my jean-clad thighs.

I should have spoken up, but once it was apparent no one else lives their life according to the date my parents killed themselves, I didn’t have the heart to ruin anyone else’s night. Or worse, what if they tried to talk me out of this?

The real question is this: If a girl gets drunk in her hotel room alone, and no one sees, does it really happen?

Without a thought, I reach out for the first bottle, and with a satisfying crack, the twist cap falls off. “To you, Mom.” Her gray features and bloodshot eyes stab behind my eyelids, and I ignore the burn of the tequila as it goes down, finishing the bottle in one quick motion and shuddering at the foreign taste.

I stand and start to pace the room, relishing the warmth in my stomach. My cheeks feel flush and sort of staticky. The more I pace, the heavier my head feels. I turn on the TV and turn it off just as quickly. I find my silenced phone and dock it in the alarm clock station, scrolling to some hip-hop. I turn off one of the lights in my room.

“Mood lighting,” I say to myself as my hips slowly sway back and forth to Beyoncé. I walk over to my curtains and pull them open. It’s pitch dark, but lights flicker like a zillion stars on land. I squint to see past my reflection to the shore below. I crack open the window. Up here, it only opens a few inches. I smirk darkly at my reflection. Well, ain’t that something. We all know jumping out a window isn’t the only way to end your life.

Sad reality starts to creep in again. I spin for the table and grab the second bottle. This one, whiskey. It burns worse than the tequila. I grimace, and another shudder runs through me for a second, but then I feel lighter. Like I should go somewhere. Do something. Why hide out in my room? I’m young, and I’m a celebrity.

I slip back into my boots and stride to the full-length mirror in the center of my room. My hair is considerably larger than I prefer, so I gather it up on the top of my head in a knot. My eyes look wild. Too wild. I’ve seen those eyes before. On my father. I pinch my eyes shut and shake my head back and forth.

“So you’re just going? Just like that? Forget your kid, forget your wife?”

“Screw you, Cora. I’ve stayed back three times in the past year playing the doting spouse while you travel all over God’s green earth. It’s my turn. Or did you forget I had a career, too?”

My mom’s laugh is shrill. “Had a career, Robbie. Had. When was the last time you were even in the studio?”

“Someone has to raise our daughter, or did you forget about her while you’ve been screwing your way around the continent?”

“No, no, no, no, no.” I walk back to the table and crack open the third bottle. How many of these does it take to erase them from my brain? I swig the third, vodka this time, and throw the empty bottle on my bed. I grab my phone from the dock and slip it into my pocket along with some money and my driver’s license.

I’ll text Jason on the way and see where he’s ended up. Maybe I can crash his party.

The elevator doors open, and it’s Clay. Alone.

“Hey,” he says, stepping past me.

“Hey yourself,” I say and stumble slightly in my effort to brush past him to the door.

I make it to the back of the elevator and turn to see his hand shoot out to stop the door. The doors fly open again. “You okay?”

“Fabulous.” I slap the lobby button again. He stands there, holding the door a second before exhaling.

“You’re drunk.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t drink.” I stand up straighter as if to prove my sobriety.

He grimaces. “I’ve heard that. But the booze on your breath says otherwise. Annie, you can’t go out there drunk. You’re underage.”

“That’s never stopped you from going out.”

He presses his lips together and scratches at his stubble. “True. But that’s my reputation. You’re a role model. Role models don’t get arrested in Jersey for underage drinking.”

I jab at the button again.

He holds the door with his foot and holds out a hand. “Come on. Please? You can drink all you want right here. I won’t tell.”

I consider him. Even blurry, he’s still stupid-handsome. “Where’s Lora?”

It looks like his lips twitch, but in the shadow cast by the brim of his ball cap, it’s hard to say. “Probably halfway to Cali right now. I put her on a plane. You coming or what?”

“I drank all my little bottles already,” I admit.

He raises his brows. “I have plenty.”

“Today’s the anniversary,” I blurt, feeling like an idiot.

He nods, his hand still outstretched. “I know.”

My stomach drops. “How do you know?”

“Come on, Annie. I’m not a complete heathen. I never cared much for your dad, but your momma had the voice of a saint. I was a huge fan. Still am. The day Cora Rosewood died is right up there with Kurt Cobain and John Lennon.”

Somewhere between his frank honesty and the knowledge I’m not the only person in the universe who remembers this date, I’m convinced, and my feet move forward. I don’t have to be alone, and I don’t have to explain myself.

He waits until I’m off the elevator before letting the door go. “I’m down this way.”