As Donna staggered off to her friends, Skylar returned to our table. It was just us; the girls were off in the bathroom.

Nudging me, he said, “I give her ten minutes.”

“What are you talking about?

“Little Miss Hard to Get. Once what I slipped in her drink hits her, she won’t be protesting much longer.”

I stared at him, scanning his face for the crack of a smile, anything. But the glint in Skylar’s eyes was entirely serious.

“You’re joking,” I said, and he smirked.

“What? I thought you wanted to have fun tonight.”

A coil of tension dropped to the bottom of my stomach. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“What the fuck, man? Are you crazy?”

Now Skylar was the one scanning my face, his smile falling.

“This coming from Carter Ray, the coldblooded business machine?”

When I said nothing, he continued. “C’mon, I mean anyone with eyes can see the girl wants it.”

I was shaking my head, but the words weren’t coming out. What would I say, anyway? Some expression of disgust, shock, or shame? That Skylar was just as sleazy as I’d suspected—worse, even?

“Look,” he said, pointing behind me. “Looks like her friends won’t be a problem much longer, anyway.”

Sure enough, I turned around to see Donna sitting at her table obliviously while the girl and guy made out. After a minute, they rose with linked arms.

“We’ll be back in a few,” the girl slurred to Donna’s half-slumped form. “Don’t move.”

And then, stumbling out of the bar, they were gone. Next thing I knew, Skylar was striding over to the table, me following him close behind. Sitting down, he draped his arm around Donna.

“It’s time to go, isn’t it?” he asked her.

She nodded dully and allowed herself to be helped up. Shooting me a “you see?” look, Skylar wasted no time steering her out of the bar. A few feet outside, I caught up to him.

“Hey, Skylar?”

“Yeah?”

When he turned around, I punched him in the face.

He slumped back, taking Donna tumbling down with him. Sprawled on the ground, he regarded me with shock.

“What the fuck, man?”

I was already by Donna’s side, helping her up. Once she was standing, albeit unsteadily, I turned to Skylar, who was getting up himself. He was advancing, his own fist raised this time.

“No one fucking hits me and gets away with it.”

I took a few steps back.

“Don’t do this, man.”

A high-pitched, almost delirious-sounding laugh emerged from his snarled lips.

“It’s already done.”

And with that, he lunged at me.

I stepped to the side. He hurtled past me. I paused. His face was a beet-red mask of rage now; Skylar was only getting started.

The next time his fist swung at me, I swung my own punch back. I caught him under the chin, sending him staggering back.

Then there was a palm on my chest. It was security, a big beefy bald guy.

“Hey, hey. Break it up, guys, c’mon.”

A hand was placed on my arm. It was Tracie, her face scared and exhilarated.

“Carter! What’s going on?”

I looked from one of them to the other, the words I should say all slamming against each other in my head. My gaze stopped on Donna. My mind went blank. Then, sweeping Donna up in my arms, I ran.

Footsteps and shouts followed me. Carrying a full-grown woman in my arms, I wasn’t fast, though I was fast enough. I ran until the footsteps and shouts diminished to the quiet buzz of the night, of passing cars and far-off strangers’ voices and my own harried breath.

I surveyed Donna’s half-conscious form incredulously. What had I just done? What was I doing now?

Seeing just how out-of-it Donna really was answered the second part: I had to get her somewhere safe. Now.

I stared at her oblivious face. No, I couldn’t take her to my place. If she hated me already, what would she think when she woke up there with no memory of tonight? Would she even believe me when I tried telling her the truth, tried convincing her that I’d had nothing to do with what Skylar had slipped her?

I brushed a stray hair out of her face. No, it would be better to take her home.

Luckily, her bag was slung over her shoulder. A quick look through her cards revealed the address of her family’s old ranch, which was no help to me now. I was about to move on to scanning her phone when, wedged between her driver’s license and library card, a small sheet of paper fell out: 324 Cherry Tree Lane, it read.

Getting out my phone and plugging it into my maps app revealed an address on the outskirts of town—a dumpy-looking house. It had a purple door, just like the one Donna had mentioned to me. That had to be it.

The cab ride there was depressing, to say the least. Gradually, the city high-rises and swanky apartments gave way to squat structures with neon signs until these too were replaced by medium-sized houses and then, finally, little dirty boxes of homes, and 324 Cherry Tree Lane. The house was unmistakable. It was the most ramshackle looking of all of them, with a lawn of garbage-flecked dirt and that sad, deep purple door.

The cab pulled over; I paid the driver, then picked up Donna and got out.

Unsurprisingly, the door was open, as if the house were resigned to any guest, well intentioned or otherwise. Inside, the floor was a battleground of dust and garbage, and I stepped over it gingerly as I made my way down the hallway, searching for her room.

At the end, the pale sliver of light from the hallway illuminated a Monet poster on the far wall, and I knew I’d hit gold. I flicked on the light and, for a minute, took in the room I’d often wondered about.

It was a small oasis from the wretchedness outside, the peeling tulip wallpaper covered with Monet water lilies, Renoir dogs, and Van Gogh cherry blossoms. Her bed had a velour comforter that was the same light blue as her eyes. I moved it out of the way before setting her down on the white and pink striped sheets underneath. Then, I took off her shoes and tucked her in.

I took one last look at her, at the girl I’d failed today, the woman I’d betrayed. The girl who I wasn’t good enough for, who’d finally figured it out an hour or so ago. Then, with a kiss on her forehead, I left.

In the cab home, shame crept over me. The horrible images of Donna’s house slid through my head—the house that my company had consigned them to, these wretched circumstances I’d forced them into.

That alternated with Skylar’s snarling face, a face I now couldn’t picture any other way. He was supposed to be my friend. My friend, the guy who just tried to roofie someone. Just what kind of company was I keeping, anyway? What was I doing with my life?

As the cab rolled down city blocks, waited at red lights and sped through greens, the question returned to me as a twist in the gut: What was I doing with my life?

It was only once I finally got home and collapsed in bed that the reply came to me: nothing.