Chapter 18

It’s been three days since the party, and I still don’t know how to face Liam. My mother’s hospitalization has been a good excuse so far, but I cringe when Mom insists that I’m going back to school on Wednesday. I can’t avoid him anymore. But I have no idea what to say to him, how to act now that our relationship has progressed to the next level. Worse, I can still only remember bits and pieces of that night. But those snapshots are enough. I know that Liam and I went way too far—about as far as two people can go. And I’m actually thankful there’s still a black fog over most of it and that my mom’s illness is distracting me from dwelling on it too much.

Still, maybe Liam was too drunk to remember what happened between us. Or maybe he’s upset I yakked all over him while he slept. And maybe he’s hurt that I haven’t communicated with him at all since then.

The mother excuse can only go so far, after all. I’ve had time to call. During lunchtime. Or before I went to bed. But I haven’t because I’m too afraid to start that conversation.

So on Wednesday morning, I’m not exactly racing for the door. I drag my feet as I walk to school and arrive a little late for homeroom. Then I concentrate very hard on the empty notebook in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye I see Liam looking at me, but I’m stubbornly spellbound by the blank paper on my desk. When the bell rings, I sprint for the bathroom and wait there until chemistry lab starts, then I slip in after the bell, meekly hand a late pass to Mr. Green, and quietly place my books beside Liam as if it’s just a regular day.

It should be less awkward when other people are around, right? I can be pleasant while pretending to be a diligent student. And then maybe after a little while things might go back to normal.

But Liam won’t stop trying to meet my eye, no matter how stubbornly I avoid him. Finally, he places his hand over mine and blocks my view of the page in front of me. I have no choice but to look up.

His eyes are wide and scared, searching mine. “How’s your mom?” he whispers. But his expression is asking something else.

“She’s better. Now that she’s taking her medicine, they’re talking about discharging her from the hospital. Maybe even tonight.”

“That’s good. I was worried about you.”

“Oh.” I push my lips up into a cheery smile. “I’m fine.”

He hesitates and glances around the room before turning back to me. “When I woke up,” he says, lowering his voice so I can barely hear him, “you were gone. And I couldn’t believe what…what had happened—”

“I’m so sorry about that,” I cut in. “I can pay for the truck cleaning. I brought some money with me.” I dig into my pocket. “Will this be enough?”

He stares at the crumpled bills I’ve pushed into his palm. “I wasn’t even thinking about the car. I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine. And it isn’t fair that you should have to pay to clean up the puke.”

He shakes his head. “I thought I did that. I threw up after I woke up. So did most of the people who drank Marcus’s punch, apparently. But I never thought to blame you. I was worried that you weren’t answering my calls because you were upset about—”

“Why would I be upset?” I interrupt. “We both screwed up, that’s all. Honestly, I just want to forget that night completely—”

“I’d really like that,” he says. “We can just start over, okay?”

“Okay.” He doesn’t look convinced, though. There seems to be a follow-up question struggling to get out, but I want to put an end to this conversation now. So I decide to lighten the mood a little. “I came up with an awesome hangover cure. Want to hear?”

“I’m not hungover anymore.”

“Whatever. For next time.”

He makes a face. “There isn’t going to be a next time. I never want to lose my judgment like that again—”

I don’t want to talk about this. “I’ve been reading that the Namibians drink buffalo milk after a night of partying,” I tell him quickly. “It’s not actually from a buffalo. Basically, they make this ice cream float with spiced rum and clotted cream. So I thought if you add a bit of licorice root, which decreases stomach inflammation, it could make the ultimate hangover—”

“Rain, are you sure you’re okay?”

I make a frustrated, noisy clatter with the stirring rod. “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” I say shortly. “We’re in the middle of lab.”

“Okay.” He shifts uncomfortably and seems about to speak again, but a look from the teacher silences him. We work quietly for the rest of the period. When the bell rings, he turns to me and touches my sleeve.

“Can we talk after school? I promised to take your brother on that surgery observation this evening,” he says. “But I’m free before that.”

“Sure,” I say with a shrug.

I can feel Liam’s eyes watching me as I gather my books and shove them into my bag. I want to tell him again that I’m fine, that we’d both made a stupid mistake I’m just desperate to forget. I don’t care about being healthy or responsible or right. Pretending to move on is what I need now. Between my mother being hospitalized, my dad waiting on the sidelines, my brother diagnosing the hell out of everything, I just need our relationship to be simple.

But I don’t know how to say any of that. So I just say, “Hey, did you know that the Sicilians used dried bull penis as a hangover cure? Seriously. Dried. Bull. Penis.”

For a moment, his smile washes away the worry in his eyes, and I feel happy for the first time in days. We’re going to be just fine, I tell myself. I’m not going to let one mistake ruin us.