Chapter 32

Becky

7:01 PM THURSDAY

Somehow, it’s time to eat again.

By Sammi’s standards, alcohol is food right now, and I’m just not hungry. But Percy and Mysti May have determined that, since I didn’t eat fuck all at dinner with Liam, it’s time to hit up a Vegas buffet instead.

With my energy levels at an all-time low, I don’t complain. I just tag along. Today has been, hands down, the worst day of my life, so I’m letting them take the wheel. I’m just a passenger.

“This one,” Percy says and points to the façade of a restaurant with a giant lobster over the door. “This is it. I can feel it.”

She looks at me like I’m supposed to applaud or something. I just nod. My heart’s not into it right now—my heart is torn between the man that I’m supposed to be marrying and the brother that I married instead.

I really don’t fucking care where we eat. I still don’t think I’ll be able to get even a mouthful down.

At best, I might settle for a coffee. Some caffeine might help shake me up.

We sit at an eight-seater booth, mostly because of the table size than the number of seats. All around the walls are mirrors, which makes me feel sick, seeing my reflection multiple times.

Even from this distance, I can see the bags under my eyes. God. I’m pretty fucking sure I’ve lost some weight over the last two days alone.

I watch Percy and Mysti May trot off and return a few minutes later with oversized dinner plates piled up with lobster and shrimp cocktail.

Just looking at the food makes me want to fucking puke.

“You going to get something?” Percy asks between mouthfuls.

I shake my head.

Sammi returns with—inexplicably—a beer. She puts a small plate in front of me. On it are some pastries and chocolate.

“Food,” she says, pointing to it like I don’t know what that is anymore.

I know they’re just trying to look after me, but I doubt I’ll be able to keep anything down.

“I’ll get some coffee,” I reply with a forced smile and walk past all the food and happy couples to the caffeine station.

I hope the hit of caffeine will give me a much-needed boost. My eyes are heavy, like they’re filled with sand. I might need matchsticks to keep them open.

As I walk along, my jelly legs do their best to hold me upright. From time to time, a wave of dizziness washes over me, and I grab onto the buffet bar to steady myself.

If I keep going like this, my problem will be solved another way—I’ll waste away into nothing.

When I return to our table, the girls stop talking.

I try not to take offense. They’re no doubt working on some plan to cheer me up. I appreciate that they’re on my side and not against me. If they turn, then I’ll be all on my own.

I slide in beside Mysti, who puts an arm around me. Even though I don’t feel like smiling, I force my lips to curl up just a little. In the reflection, I can see it looks more like a snarl. Ugh.

“Come on, babe,” she says. “You need to eat something. You can’t keep going the way you are. You’re just like a car, babe. Your body needs fuel.”

She’s right, of course, but I shake my head.

“I don’t think I can.” I sob and wipe my face with the back of my hand. Fucking tears again.

Since last night, I’ve been feeling twice as bad. I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on Liam. It wasn’t his fucking fault I’ve made a mess of things.

So far, he’s only treated me kindly, and how did I repay him? By storming out on him during dinner like a spoiled child.

Maybe I was no better than a five-year-old girl who throws a tantrum because she doesn’t get her way. Well, okay, I didn’t really throw a tantrum, but walking out on someone because they don’t tell you what you want to hear is a close second.

Maybe I just need to communicate my feelings better. If I had approached the issue a little differently, Liam might have been more inclined to give me answers.

For some reason, he seems convinced I know what happened. And that right there is a fucking worry. If I know what happened, was it so bad that I’m deliberately not remembering it?

I sigh again. My fucking head’s hurting from all the fucking thinking.

I take a sip from my coffee mug. Ooooh, that feels fucking good. The hot, thick liquid glides down the back of my throat and assaults my nerve cells with gunpowder-like caffeine.

Of course, everyone’s right: I won’t last much longer if I don’t start eating. But I’m sure if I put anything in my mouth, I’ll puke it out straight away. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s vomiting.

Nothing is worse than vomit. I’m okay with blood, bruises, sprains, and breaks, but I can’t fucking stand vomit.

“What I can’t understand,” Percy starts between mouthfuls of food, “is how Sammi remembered about the Celine Dion concert.”

I nod. It was fucking strange. Like something had drawn it from her mind all of a sudden—I’m assuming so, because it would be a dick move if she was holding out on us about it this entire time.

But does it really matter? I fucking doubt it. I don’t need to know why someone remembers something.

I need to be able to remember what happened—or at least have one my BFFs remember.

“Who could we ask?” Mysti looks expectantly at Percy.

Instantly, Percy pulls out her phone and flicks through her list of contacts.

“Let me see,” she mumbles and takes another mouthful of lobster. “There must be someone here I can call.”

I watch in amazement. Percy is the only woman I know who has access to nearly every kind of specialist in her contact list.

Want a lawyer? Ask Percy—she’s fucking three of them. Want a surgeon for breast implants? No fucking worries, ask Percy. I bet Percy would even set me up with a hit man.

Briefly, I toy with the idea of asking her. But then I dismiss it. Who would I use the hit man on anyway?

Although…maybe I should table that idea until I figure out what exactly it is that Dan the Man did to send me spiraling so bad last night.

I sigh and put my head in my hands.

Don’t cry, I tell myself. Pull yourself together and stop being a fucking victim. Take control of your thoughts and emotions.

Unfortunately, none of the positive psychobabble seems to work on me. I’ve read the books, I’ve heard the lectures, and I’ve tried my hardest to be fucking positive, but it never seems to be fucking working.

“Bingo,” Percy shouts and presses the dial button.

I knew she’d find someone.

The two go back to their food while I turn back to my coffee, waiting for answers.

When she hangs up, she is grinning from ear to ear.

“Dr. Phil,” she says with a giggle. “Don’t worry, Becks. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

“The Dr. Phil?” I ask with a gasp.

“Nah. A different one. Highly regarded expert shrink, though. First of all, he agrees that you’re repressing—”

“Yeah, no shit,” Sammi says, eating cake out of her hand like a fucking animal while Mysti May shushes her.

“―and he thinks that there are these things, right? Memory triggers,” Percy continues. “He says that if you go back to the state you were in at the time of the incident, your memories might come back.”

“Study drunk, take the exam drunk,” Sammi muses. “It makes sense.”

“Fuck,” Mysti May swears. “We were all drunk when we went back up at the suite yesterday.”

“I wasn’t,” I pipe up. If I’m being totally honest here, I’m not keen to hop back on the booze horse right away. I’m still hungover from our last meeting with Jose Cuervo, thank you very much.

“But we were,” Percy says, her face lighting up. “If you can’t remember, Becks…maybe we can.”

I shake my head. Is this fucking shrink even qualified or did he get his diploma out of a Coco Pops box? Getting drunk so you can remember what you did the last time you were drunk—sounds like a solid recipe for alcoholism to me.

“It would explain why shit keeps triggering Becky’s memory,” Mysti May says with a coy little smile. “I’m in.”

“And when Sammi got drunk earlier, she remembered being drunk at Celine Dion’s sex dungeon,” Percy adds.

The two of them look at Sammi for her opinon.

“Well, I’m not, like, opposed to getting drunker, am I?” Sammi slurs.

They all look at me.

After a few seconds, I cave. “After the day we’ve had, I do probably need a drink.”

Sammi, Percy, and Mysti May don’t need any further invitation to get a fucking move on.

Together, we head to the all-you-can-drink mimosa station.

I see a bunch of elderly gentlemen side-eye the fuck out of us as we return to the table, mimosas in each hand.

I take as large a sip as I can.

If my girls are getting sloshed, then fuck it. So am I.