“OUCH!” I YELP, HOPPING on one foot as the other throbs from me slamming it against the corner of my dresser. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck.”
I hop over to my bed, stripping my clothes off and leaving them on the floor before crawling under the sheets. The slight cold front that blew in last week is definitely gone, evidenced by the sweat glossing my lower back, so I kick the sheets off and lie staring up at my ceiling, watching the tiles turn like the hands of a clock.
I’m drunk.
It’s been a while since I could say that, and now that the multiple shots of Fireball are swimming in my stomach as the room spins, I forget why I wanted this in the first place.
I’ve been stressed since the semester started. Between my new role as president, the concert, and Omega Chi being suspended, I’ve had my hands full with everything from philanthropy work and nationals relations to keg parties and now, hosting the biggest Halloween bash PSU has ever seen. We’ve rented out twenty boats with captains to take us out to the sand bar, all drinks included, and every Greek student on campus is stoked.
Except me.
It’s not that I’m not excited everyone is buzzing about Alpha Sigma, or that we’re going to throw a killer party, but balancing all of it has been more of a struggle than I thought.
So, Jeremy made me take a night off, dragged me to Ralph’s, and got me completely shit-faced. You need a break, he’d said. But what he couldn’t have known is that every time I drink, I do forget about the presidency for a while, but I never forget about her.
Being busy helps me keep my mind off Cassie. It’s one of the reasons I try not to take a break or slow down, even when the stress is high. It’s easier to pretend what I told her last semester about being busy with the presidency is true than to admit to myself that it’s not.
I never would have been too busy for her, but now it doesn’t matter. I lost my chance.
Sober me knows that.
Drunk me begs to differ.
There isn’t even one small part of me that tries to argue or reason with my drunk logic as I blindly reach for my phone on the bedside table. It’s just past one in the morning, but that doesn’t stop me either. I thumb through my contacts and find hers easily, a picture of us from Spring Break last year filling the screen as I switch to speaker phone.
The rings fill my room, and I close my eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning for just one second. This is stupid. I know that. But all I can do is hope she answers.
When the ringing stops, my eyes flutter open again.
“Hello?” she whispers.
I smile at the sound of her voice, placing the phone on my chest and resting my hands under my head. “What was your favorite game to play as a kid?”
There’s a pause on the other end, then the slight sound of papers shuffling.
“Adam, it’s one o’ clock in the morning.”
“And you’re awake.”
She laughs. “Well, yes. I’m studying. But why are you calling me to ask me about my childhood at one in the morning?”
“I’ve just been thinking about it. When I was a kid, I used to love to ride my bike. I’d get on it the second I got off the school bus and ride it until the street lights came on. I also used to play this game with my grandpa, before he passed, where he would name a country and I’d have to figure out the capitol, the native language, and the political makeup. Then he’d teach me common phrases in that language. I know how to say hello, goodbye, thank you, please, and do you speak English? in fourteen different languages.”
“You’re drunk,” Cassie answers simply.
“Maybe. Humor me, anyway.”
She sighs, more shuffling noises coming from her end. “Hold on. Let me go outside.”
I listen as she packs up her bag, imagining her bright red hair piled on top of her head, her flashcards spread out on the table at the Greek library. After a moment, I hear the soft sound of a door closing, and then the familiar quiet rush from the fountain in the background.
“Operation,” she says finally.
“Like the board game with the guy and the big red nose and all the open body parts?”
She laughs. “That’s the one. Even back then, I knew I wanted to be a doctor. My mom said I used to write letters to Hasbro telling them their game was broken, because I absolutely did not touch the metal sides but I was buzzed. And I went on to tell them how frustrating that is for a steady surgeon hand and that the surgery room should be free of such awful noises. I suggested they use something softer, like a cat meowing or a bird chirp to indicate the sides had been touched.”
A laugh barrels out of me. “Why am I not surprised?”
“So, how do you say hello in Portuguese?”
“Olá,” I answer. “Or oi, or alô.”
“At least you got some useful information out of your favorite game. I only learned how to curse at a young age. Stupid Hasbro.”
I chuckle, but then silence falls over both of us. I got her to answer, but now that I have her on the phone, the sharp ache in my stomach is rolling strong. Because I don’t really have her, but I want her so bad it hurts.
“Here’s another one in Portuguese. Desculpe.”
“And what does that mean?” she asks.
I swallow, inching up to lean against my headboard and balancing my phone in one hand. “I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t respond, so I continue.
“I really was just making a joke at the dodgeball tournament, but I also knew what I was doing. I wanted to get under Grayson’s skin, and I was gloating off the win. I was an asshole, and you didn’t deserve to be stuck in the middle of that.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, then she sighs. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have had dinner with you the night he bailed on me. We’re a couple, we’re going to have fights, and I shouldn’t have found comfort in you when he let me down. That’s not fair to him.” She pauses. “Or to you.”
The knife in my side twists in a little deeper, and I shift at the pain.
“But I want to be there for you… I always have been. We’re friends.”
“I know,” she answers quickly.
“But he doesn’t want us to be, does he?” I finish for her.
“Can you blame him?”
I can’t, but I hate it all the same, so I don’t answer her question.
“Have you slept with him?”
She scoffs. “Wow. That is none of your business, Adam.”
“I’m sorry. Shit, I’m sorry, don’t hang up.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to shake my way through the drunken fog clouding my head. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about you. Not since that night on Spring Break. And I know you’re with Grayson, and I know you care about him, but it doesn’t change the fact that I want you.”
She inhales a stiff breath. “Adam…”
“I want to know everything about you, Cassie. Everything. Your fears, your secrets, your hopes, and your dreams. I want to know how many kids you want or if you even want any at all. Do you want to travel the world or stay in the same small town forever? And who are you when no one is around, when it’s just you and your favorite playlist? What’s playing, who’s singing to you when you’re sad, and who do you dance to when you’re happy?”
There’s a sniff on the other end, but I can’t stop.
“I want to know all of that and more. Does he? Does he know the real you? Does he want to?”
I hear her sniff again and my heart clenches. Sitting up straighter in bed, I close my eyes, trying to reach for her across the airwaves. Does she feel me? Is she reaching for me, too?
My answer comes in the form of a soft click, and then the sniffling is gone, and the fountain is muted, and it’s just me alone in my bed again. In the morning, I’ll be hungover.
In more ways than one.