Dru, Mara, and I were in the “family booth” at Badd’s, the one closest to the kitchen and the service bar. It was the one booth in the bar that was always reserved for family and friends who weren’t working and who wanted to hang out, It was a popular spot in the evenings, especially on the weeknights when Badd’s wasn’t as busy. There were always at least two or three people in the booth, and usually more than that squeezed in, with a pitcher of beer or a bottle of something going around. Tonight was a weekend, so all hands were on deck—all the brothers were working: Zane, Sebastian, and Brock were behind the bar, and Bax was at the door carding, the twins and Lucian were waiting tables, and Xavier was in the kitchen slinging booze food.

It was well past midnight, and the place was crowded wall to wall with people, three deep waiting for drinks and all the tables were full. One of the recent improvements the brothers had made to the bar was keeping the kitchen open through closing, with a limited deep-fry-only menu available after eleven. Since most other bars closed their kitchens at eleven, this brought even more traffic to Badd’s, since who wouldn’t want French fries or chicken fingers with late night booze? The after-hours menu was designed by Xavier and it featured items he could sling by himself and serve in extra-large paper cups, which meant no extra dishes to manage. It was a pretty genius move, actually. Their liquor sales had skyrocketed in tandem with food sales, and now even on weeknights the bar was pretty packed, and on weekends it was pretty much insane from open to close. It didn’t hurt that the brothers were all sexy as hell, something the female patrons really appreciated.

I sipped from my glass and watched Brock shaking a martini, frowning absently, thinking about the way he’d caught me unawares with his bullshit interrogation.

Let’s go for a flight, Claire, he says.

Let’s sit on the pontoon and TALK, Claire, he says.

Let me pin you to the wall about your most private, personal, painful inner thoughts and feelings, Claire, he says.

I was truly pissed about it. Could he not just give it a rest?

Gahhh. The more I thought about it, the more pissed I got. I mean, where did he get off, thinking he could just drag everything out of me? What? I’m supposed to just spill everything I’m going through just because we’re dating? Um, no. Thanks, nice try, but no. That’s not how I work. I’m a very private person when it comes to my feelings. I’ve let him get closer to me than anyone else in my entire life…I’ve told him stuff NOBODY knows, not even Mara. Isn’t that enough? He was there for me when my dad was dying, and yeah, he was probably right in that I’d eventually be thankful he had made me go. Because of his insistence, I’d discovered a truth which I would have otherwise spent the rest of my life not knowing. But right now…I wasn’t thankful, I was pissed. At Brock, at Mom, at Connor, at Brennan, at myself, at life.

I was sitting in the corner of the booth, wedged in next to Mara, with Dru across from us. I was slamming whisky, neat. I hadn’t bothered to count, since I was just kind of pouring them haphazardly from the bottle of Johnny Black Zane had dropped off…but the bottle had started out full and was now half-empty. A LOT of whisky, especially for a smaller chick like me. Thankfully Xavier had wandered out, saw how much scotch I was drinking, and returned promptly with a cupful of fries sprinkled liberally with Cajun seasoning and another cup full of chicken tenders and mozzarella sticks. All of which I was gleefully hogging. It was soaking up the whisky nicely, but I was still pretty well sloshed.

Okay, I was hammered.

But I had no intention of stopping. I tossed back the last swallow from my tumbler and poured another measure, sloppily with both Mara and Dru eyeing me and then each other, meaningfully.

“SHUT UP,” I slurred loudly. “I don’t need your silent judgment.”

Mara sighed. “We’re not judging you, Claire, we’re just…”

“We’re worried, honey,” Dru finished.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re—” Mara started.

“Drunk,” I cut in. “Yes. Very much so. But I’m fine. Tooooootally fine.”

“Claire.” Mara said my name in the tone of voice she reserved for when I was being obtuse. “You’ve been drinking whisky for two hours.”

“I’m having fun,” I snapped.

“You don’t even like whisky, and plus, you haven’t said a single word since we sat down.”

“I’m having FUN!” I insisted, more loudly.

“You’re eating fried food,” Mara said, as if suggesting I was doing something illegal.

“I was hungry.”

“You never eat fried food, Claire.”

I growled. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I shoved at Mara until she slid out. “I don’t need this shit.”

I stood up, wobbly, and started to walk away. I got two steps before I spun around and grabbed the bottle and the tumbler, and then turned away again. And then I stopped, transferring the tumbler and bottle to one hand and then snagged the cups of food, glaring at Dru and Mara as if daring them to try to stop me.

Mara watched me for a second. “Where are you going?”

“OUTSIDE,” I snapped. “Where there’s no one to get on my case.”

I threaded my way dizzily through the kitchen, where Xavier just watched me stumble past him to the service door, which he’d propped open with a milk crate to let in the fresh air and the cool evening breeze.

There was an old Formica-covered table out there beside the dumpster, with a cluster of mismatched, cast-off chairs—lawn chairs, old wooden restaurant chairs, old bar stools. I slumped into the nearest seat and carefully set down my fuck-everyone-and-everything supplies, and immediately shoved half a mozzarella stick into my mouth. Mmmm, cheesy, deep-fried goodness. I knew I’d regret this later, because my stomach would very painfully and violently remind me that I hadn’t eaten fried food in years, but shit, the amount of whisky I’d already had was going to be punishment enough. Why not add to the agony with some delicious in the moment?

I tossed back more whisky, and ate a handful of fries while mentally berating Dru and Mara. Even in my own head I knew I was being drunk and stupid, but I couldn’t help it.

After a few minutes, Xavier came out with a pint glass full of beer, a white-and-green striped bar towel tossed over one shoulder and a stained white apron tied around his waist. He sipped his beer, and then eyed me, hesitating.

“Don’t start, Xavier,” I mumbled.

He didn’t say anything, just quirked any eyebrow at me, and then took my glass from me, ignoring my protests, and then tossed back a healthy swallow before returning it.

Another few minutes of silence, and I couldn’t handle it anymore. “What, Xavier? What do you want?”

He shrugged. “I’m just taking a break, that’s all.”

I eyed him. He was a damn sexy kid, Xavier Badd. Tall and lean, wiry, with the signature Badd chocolate-brown eyes and messy dark hair, he was the most hipster of his brothers, always wearing tight jeans and retro T-shirts, like Atari and Galaga and original Nintendo and shit like that, retro-geeky stuff. He left his hair long and messy on top and cut close to the scalp on the sides. He was a super-sweet kid, and very eccentric which made him funny and unpredictable, plus he was fun to talk to and fun to mess with, since he was obviously a virgin.

He was wearing black Dickey work pants, much-stained, clearly meant only for work, and a faded black T-shirt with a red dodecahedron on it designed to look like a nucleus with electrons and such swirling around it—it was a D20, in gamer parlance, a dice used by Dungeons and Dragons players. The shirt looked old as hell, with holes in it and evidence of a lot of wear and tear. Much-loved, obviously.

“Bullshit,” I said. “Let me guess…someone sent you to keep an eye on me.”

He blushed, glanced down at the table, tracing idle patterns on the surface in the moisture left behind by his sweating pint glass. “Nah, I just—”

“You’re a bad liar, Xavier,” I said. “Pro-tip? Don’t do it, you have too many tells.”

He laughed, nodding. “I know. My brothers make fun of me for it.”

“Who sent you?”

He shrugged. “Everyone?”

“Everyone?”

“Yeah, well, Mara told Brock that you’d come out here, and he was unable to leave the bar, and Mara said you were being…” He trailed off, uncomfortable with whatever she’d called me. “She said you were being difficult.”

“Oh horse-shit. That’s not what she said.”

“No, but I’d rather not repeat it.”

I laughed. “Now I’m curious. What’d Mara say, Xavier? It’s not gonna hurt my feelings. We talk like that to each other and about each other, it’s just how we are.”

He was so fun and easy to mess with: I was wearing a low-cut V-neck T-shirt, no bra, so I leaned forward casually. He did his damnedest to not look, but he kept accidentally directing his gaze to my chest.

He glanced away, then looked at my eyes, and blushed. “You—your…” He let out a breath and leaned way back in his chair, tipping back on the back legs, and took a long swig. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you? You’re using your feminine wiles on me.”

I burst out laughing so hard I spewed whisky all over the table, and then dissolved into hacking. When I could breathe again, I laughed some more. “Oh my god, Xavier—holy shit, honey. Feminine wiles? That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.” I reached out and grabbed his wrist, meeting his gaze, worried my laughing had hurt his feelings. “You are so adorable it hurts, you know that?”

He frowned at me. “Adorable. That’s wonderful.”

I tilted my head at him. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

“It is. No guy, no man ever wants to be cute or adorable, and that’s what everyone calls me. It’s the kiss of death. The moment a girl thinks you’re so cute or sooooo adorable…” He drew his finger across his throat. “You’re done.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You didn’t mean it to be condescending, no. I know that. But it was still…dismissive.

“I get a lot of shit about being a virgin. And partially, yeah, it is a decision I have made intentionally, because that’s something I do not want to give away cheaply. I want it to have meaning. That’s the story I tell everyone, and it’s true.”

“But?”

He shrugged. “But I’m also just…” A sigh, and another shrug, an uncomfortable one. “I’m not good with physical contact. Not with anyone. I want to have sex—with the right woman, someday hopefully soon—but…sometimes I’m scared I won’t be able to. I’m worried my hypersensitivity to touch will make it impossible. What then? I remain a virgin the rest of my life?” He poured some Johnny into the tumbler and drank it. “Nikolas Tesla voluntarily remained a virgin his whole life, so as not to be distracted from achieving the maximum potential of his intelligence. Maybe that’s what I’m doomed to be. I’ll probably die like him, too—alone, poor, with my accomplishments only recognized long after my death.”

“No, Xavier. I really don’t think that’s likely.”

He wouldn’t quite look at me. “But what if I can’t ever go through with it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t really answer that.” I hesitated. “I’d like to say that you’ll find the right person and it’ll work out for you. I mean, I’m not you, I don’t have your issue with touch. But I went through some things that made me not want to ever do that, or to allow anyone to get that close to me. But I did, and even though it was kind of hard the first time, I got over it, and it became something I really enjoy. Maybe for you it’ll be similar. I mean, hopefully you won’t ever go through what I did, but I’m just saying you’ll maybe have to just take it slow, take it one step at a time, with the right person, acclimating yourself to letting that one person inside your walls, letting them have that part of you.”

“That makes sense, I guess.”

I stared at him for a moment. “Damn you. That was a nice deflection.” I took a sip of scotch and said, “Now. Tell me what Mara said. I won’t be mad at you or her, I promise.”

He sighed. “She said you were being a stubborn, obnoxious, impossible little bitch who wouldn’t know a good thing if it literally bit you on the ass.”

“I do know a good thing, but I haven’t been able to get him to bite me, yet.”

Xavier blushed again.

“She also might have tossed the word whore around a few times,” Xavier said, not quite looking at me.

“Sounds about right. You can go back in there and tell all of them that I don’t need a babysitter. I’m an adult and I can do what I want and they can all go fuck themselves. Tell Mara I said to remember that she’s a commitment-phobic sissy just like me, so she especially can kiss my ass.”

“Why am I giving them these messages?” Xavier asked. “Why not tell them yourself? Are you going somewhere?”

“I don’t want to see anyone right now. Least of all Mara or Brock.”

“I must admit, I do not understand any of this.”

I laughed again. “Because you’re beautifully and wonderfully innocent, honey-buns.” I touched his wrist again, a brief contact. “Let me tell you something: when you fuck someone, it’s just fucking. No complications, no mess, no bullshit. But once you start giving a shit, that’s when it gets messy. You gotta be really sure you want that mess, kiddo, because once you start giving a shit, you can’t take it back.”

“You act like you can separate…fucking someone from caring about them.” He hesitated over the F-word, which made me want to clasp my hands together under my chin and go awwwww, how cute.

“That’s because you can.”

“How?”

I shrugged. “It’s just sex, just bodies and hands and sweat and spit and dicks and pussies. Peg A goes into Slot B, repeat until orgasm, it feels good, go home. Simple.” I polished off the last of the fries with another shot of whisky, and holy motherfucker, I was wasted. I’d have hell to pay when I stood up, but for now, I was wallowing blissfully in the haze of being sloppy drunk.

“But…but—when you start doing stupid shit like caring about people, sex isn’t just sex anymore. It’s not just feeling good anymore. You can’t just give a shit once and then be done. Oh nooooo, you have to keep giving a shit. Perpetually. And you have to allow the other person to give a shit about you. That’s the worst part.”

Xavier’s frown was so puzzled, so thoughtful, so delightfully innocent my heart hurt. “Why would letting someone care about you be bad?”

“Because then they have the power to hurt you, and not just a few little hurt feelings, but the really deep down fuck up your life kind of agony. And that shit sucks, okay? It just sucks. I do not recommend it.”

“It seems to me that pain heals, even if you never totally forget, even if you have scars, literally or metaphorically.” Xavier’s eyes met mine. “Pain will heal. But loneliness, isolation, the pain of not having anyone who understands you, not having anyone you really trust, not having anyone that can…be your person, I suppose…I would think that would be worth the risk of pain.”

The innocence, the hope, the genuine kindness in his big chocolate-brown puppy dog eyes was way too much for me. I shook my head in irritation and stood up carefully.

“That’s because you’ve never felt either one, Xavier.” I flattened a palm on the table for balance and drained the last swallow of whisky in the glass, and noticed that the bottle was down to three-quarters empty. “But I’m black-out wasted and cynical, so I wouldn’t listen to me if I were you.”

“You don’t sound very drunk,” Xavier noted.

“I’m one of those drunks who never looks, sounds, or acts as drunk as they really are. Make no mistake—I’m completely obliterated right now.”

“So where are you going?”

I shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Should you walk around alone if you’re as drunk as you say you are?”

“Yes. I should,” I said, picking my steps ever so carefully out of the alley toward the sidewalk.

“I’m not so sure I agree, Claire.” He stood up and followed me. “You could get lost, or fall over and be hurt. Why don’t you let me get someone to go with you?”

“BECAUSE I WANT TO BE ALONE!” I shouted. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter!”

“I’m not trying to babysit you, Claire, I just—I’m worried about you.”

“Yeah, well I’d say get in line, but it’d be a pretty short fucking line.”

“That’s rank nonsense,” Xavier snapped, sounding more irritated than I’d ever heard him. “And on the behalf of myself, my brothers, Mara, and Dru, I take offense to that statement, and the insinuation behind it. The line is actually fairly long, at this point. There’s not one person in that bar that wouldn’t go out of their way for you, and you know it.” He kept pace with me. “But what do I know? I’m just a cute, innocent virgin.”

“XAVIER!” I heard a male voice shouting. “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? I GOT ORDERS!”

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Xavier. You’re a gorgeous person, inside and out.” I waved him away. “Now go. I’ll be fine.”

He eyed me warily, thoughtfully, and then turned and went back to the kitchen. I set out down the sidewalk, stumbling a little here and there. And with each step, I realized exactly how clobbered I was; it became harder and harder to put one foot in front of the other, harder to see straight, or see one of anything.

I wasn’t sure where I was going, or why. All I knew was that everything hurt.

I didn’t want to care about Brock. I didn’t want him to care about me.

I didn’t want to answer any more damn questions. I didn’t want to think about my mom, or Connor, or whatever the fuck the other guy’s name was, Brendan? Brandon? Brannon? Something like that. Fuck him, whatever his stupid Irish name was. Fuck him for dying. And fuck Connor for taking Mom back when he clearly wasn’t up to the task of loving another man’s baby.

Fuck both of them, for not being there for me.

Fuck Mom and Dad—Connor, I mean—for lying to me my whole life.

And fuck Brock for forcing me to go watch my stupid lying dick of a father-figure die, and thus learning the truth. Would have been better to have gone the rest of my life just thinking there was something wrong with me that prevented him from loving me. Knowing the truth fucks my up whole life in so many ways I don’t even understand.

I abruptly stopped walking, wobbled, stumbled, and found a solid vertical surface at my back and slid down to a sitting position. Waves chucked and slapped nearby. I peered around and made out blurry white shapes of boats. I was at the docks, then? I couldn’t really tell, and didn’t care.

I didn’t want to care about anything.

Fuck Brock for making me care about him, about me, about my past, about my future, about anything.

“Claire?” I heard a voice.

I ignored him.

“CLAIRE!” he shouted again.

“Stop shouting,” I said. “I’m over here.”

I heard the sound of running on the dock and then Brock was kneeling in front of me. “Claire, goddammit. What are you doing?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Sitting here?”

“You’re about to fall into the water.”

“That’s okay. I can swim.”

“You’re hammered.”

“So I can swim hammered.” I peered up at him. “You can fuck off. I don’t need you.”

“Yes, you do.” He lifted me to my feet and guided me away. “Now, come on. You need to lie down somewhere.”

“It’s lay down, actually, not lie. And I don’t wanna lay down. Leave me alone.” I shook his hand off me, glared blearily around to find the apartment above the twins’ recording studio where Brock was currently living, and thus, so was I.

“Claire, just let me walk you home.”

“Seattle is a long walk, buddy.”

He was silent for a few steps. “Not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” I felt the anger coming back, and while deep down I knew it was irrational and unfair, I was too drunk to care, too drunk to filter. “And I meant what I said.”

“You’re drunk and upset. We don’t have to talk about this now.”

“Talk about what, Brock? You think I could ever make this podunk little piece of shit town home? Get real.” I tried to walk faster to get away from him, but only managed to weave an even more unsteady line.

“Damn it, Claire. Just stop,” he said, trying to catch me in his hands again.

“Stop what?” I shook him off again. “Quit grabbing me. I’ll stop pretending, how about that? Here’s me not pretending anymore. This shit between us is done. It’s over. It was never going to work, and you were a dumbass if you thought it could. We had some good sex, but that’s all it was ever going to be.”

“That’s not true. You’re just spooked.”

“Spooked? What am I? A skittish horse? Fuck you. I’m not spooked, I’m done acting like I can do a relationship. I’m too fucked-up for relationships. Too fucked-up for you. Too fucked-up for…for everything.” I felt his hands on my shoulders, turning me, guiding me, and I couldn’t remember where I’d been going, and couldn’t see which of the spinning doors I was supposed to go through, or how to make them stop spinning so I could grab the handle, so I let him guide me. “Fuck you. Fuck this. Fuck us. Fuck me. Fuck everything.”

“That’s a lot of fucking.”

“Yeah, and that’s all we were, Brock—a lot of fucking.”

A door opened, somehow, and I heard my footsteps on a carpeted floor, saw the shapes of drums and guitars and a piano and microphones all jumbled together, and then there were stairs under my feet, and Brock was partially carrying me up them. I closed my eyes for a minute, and felt myself tripping, because my legs were getting mixed up. And then I was floating, floating in a pair of strong arms. God, his arms were nice. Yummy, and strong, and sexy, and I really did like them. I patted his bicep.

“You have nice arms,” I said.

“Thanks.”

I tried to open my eyes, and only managed one. His jaw was set, and his brow was furrowed. “Uh-oh. Bwock is aaaang-gwee,” I said in singsong baby talk. “I maded him mad.”

He laughed, and the furrows smoothed out. “You’re just fucked-up.”

“I know, and that’s why this won’t work.”

“Yes, it will.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Do you remember what you told me? That night in Michigan, before your dad’s funeral?”

I shook my head. “No. But I’m sure it was a bunch of bullshit.”

“You told me that a shit-storm was coming, and that you were going to try to break up with me, and that I shouldn’t let you.” He set me down on his bed, and then I heard his door close.

“That was drunk-me.”

“And you’re drunk now.”

“Right. So I’m saying, drunk-me is an idiot and you should never listen to her.” I put one foot on the floor to stop the spinning, keeping my eyes closed and focusing on keeping the contents of my stomach inside me.

“Exactly. Which is why you can say whatever you want right now, because you’re drunk. It still hurts to hear you say it, even if I know you’re drunk and don’t mean it, but I’m not letting you sabotage us.”

“I’m sorry it’s hurting you, but I’m not saying this just because I’m drunk. I’m saying it because it’s true. I don’t want to keep doing this.”

“Doing what, Claire?” His voice was soft, wary.

“Us. Caring about you. Letting you in. Dealing with your endless fucking questions.” I made my voice as deep as I could in an attempt to mimic him. “‘Hey, Claire, let me haul you away from work and trap you on my airplane so I can try to make you talk about your feelings, because I’m Brock and I’m sensitive.’”

I heard him make a sound that seemed conflicted. “Claire…fuck.” He sighed, and stood up. “Go to sleep. I have to go back to work. We’ll talk when you’re sober.”

“No, we won’t.”

“Why not?”

I pointed at the ceiling. “Because I’m leaving in the morning. Going back to Seattle.”

“Why?”

“I told you. Because I’m done.”

“Claire—”

I waved sloppily. “Go away. Go work. Buh-bye.”

“Fuck.” Another frustrated groan. “I have to work. I can’t do this with you right now.”

“Good. Don’t. There’s nothing to do, anyway. So it shall be written, so it shall be done.”

“You’re not leaving until we talk.”

“Can’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m not, I’m just—”

I opened both eyes, which sucked and was a mistake, but made it work as a kind of cross-eyed glare. “GO—AWAY!”

“Goddammit, Claire.”

“Yes, I’m fully aware that I’m being stupid and irrational and a bitch. Don’t care. Go away.” I felt my stomach lurch, and stumbled off the bed.

Brock slung open the door, guided me through it and to the bathroom, and then I fell to my knees on the toilet, heaving my stomach out. I felt Brock behind me.

“Fucking hell, Claire. How can I leave you like this?”

“Simple,” I grumbled. “Use your stupid feet and walk away. I’m fine. Don’t need you. Don’t need anyone.”

And hork, hork, hork. Burning, painful, nasty whisky vomit.

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“Send one of the girls. I won’t die before they get here. Probably.”

“Not funny.”

I peered at him. “Just go, Brock. I can puke without you hovering over me. I’m not gonna choke.”

He left eventually, slowly, hesitantly. I ignored him, but the pangs in my heart told me I was making a mistake.

I pressed my cheek to the cold porcelain, which was gross but I was too wasted to care. After some amount of time I couldn’t measure, I heard a door open and feet shuffling, and then sensed someone nearby. I peered dizzily from one eye, and saw Dru.

“Mara was too pissed to come, huh?”

Dru shook her head. “No, I volunteered. I thought maybe someone you don’t know as well might be better, all things considered.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say.” She winked at me, and then sank down to sit beside me.

“I am.”

“I’m not arguing.”

“Then why are you here?” I asked, fighting off a wave of nausea.

“Nobody likes to puke alone.”

“I do.”

“You’re a sucky liar.”

“Funny, I just said the same thing to Xavier.”

“He is a terrible liar,” she said, laughing. “And you’re not much better.”

“I’m not lying, though.” I couldn’t fight it anymore, and gave in to more puking. When I was finished, I eyed her as steadily as I could. “I really would rather be alone.”

“No you wouldn’t. You’re just telling yourself that.”

I groaned in frustration. “Nobody is listening to me.”

“Because you’re talking bullshit, honey, that’s why. We all love you, and we don’t want to see you like this.”

“Everybody gets wasted sometimes. Have you even met the Badd brothers?”

“This is different and you know it.”

“Fucking hell.” I sighed. “I don’t need this shit. I’m too drunk, and I just don’t even care.” I glared at her again. “Dru, babe, if you want to sit around and make sure I don’t choke on my own vomit, then fine, that’s your call. But I don’t need a fucking lecture about how to live my life.”

Dru lifted her hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll just sit here and keep my mouth shut.”

“Perfect,” I snapped.

I was being such a bitch, and I knew it, but I couldn’t find the wherewithal to care. I felt another wave coming, and this time I didn’t fight it. Another few minutes passed in silence, and I didn’t puke again, and figured I was done. I tried to stand up, but my limbs were all confused and tangled, and up wasn’t up, and I only managed to fall backward against the wall.

“Fuck. I need help getting to bed.”

Dru helped me to my feet, guided me to Brock’s bedroom, made sure I got into the bed, and then came back with a trash can. “In case you need to puke again.” She left and came back with two Tylenol and a bottle of red Gatorade. “Take these and drink as much as you can.”

I sat up and clumsily twisted off the top of the bottle, then managed to get the pills into my mouth and the bottle to my lips without spilling. I swallowed the pills and sipped the Gatorade until I was full. Dru took the bottle and recapped it and set it beside me.

“Scoot over,” she said.

I rolled toward the wall, which was the side I normally slept on anyway. The world wasn’t spinning as badly anymore, now that the whisky was mostly out of my system; I was exhausted, suddenly.

“Thank you, Dru,” I mumbled.

“I’ve never had any real girlfriends,” she said, “so this is kind of fun. I might make you return the favor at some point.”

“If I’m around.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“Claire, what are you thinking?”

“I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”

Dru patted my hip. “You run, he’ll just chase you, you know. Those boys don’t know the meaning of giving up.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

She laughed. “I get it. It’s scary.”

“You have no idea what I’m feeling.”

“Obviously not. But I’m not any better about this stuff than you are. I just know it’s worth it, once you let it happen.”

“Not going there with you, Dru. Sorry.” I tried to shut her words out; I didn’t want advice, I didn’t want help, I didn’t want any of it.

I just wanted to sleep. I wanted to not be drunk anymore. The fun had worn off and it was just painful and tiring and difficult and unpleasant. The real pain was in my heart, though. And the constant caring of all these people was exhausting. The only person who had ever given a shit about me was Mara, and we’d had a policy of not discussing heavy history. We’d helped each other through whatever bullshit we were going through at the moment, but for both of us, the past was best left in the past, and if we didn’t want to talk about something, neither of us ever pushed it. I was there for her; she was there for me. And if we were being stupid about something, we called each other on it.

This was different, though. This was…everything. My past, my present, my future. It was all tangled up and everything hurt and nothing made sense.

Fuck, I couldn’t handle it.

I tried to shut the thoughts out and just let myself drift on the waves of intoxicated exhaustion, until sleep finally rose up and sucked me down.

Sweet sleep, sweet peace of nothingness.