chapter seventeen

Harris

My head is pounding. Like, absolutely pounding. And my throat is beyond sore—I'm sensing a likely combination of frequent vomiting and intense thirst. My blinds are half-closed, and the sunlight peeking through is way too bright to be humane. My phone is right on my nightstand, thankfully. I check the time. Right before my eyes, it goes from 3:44 to 3:45.

There's a glass of water on the nightstand too, thankfully, right next to one of the blue Post-It notes from my desk. It reads in surprisingly messy handwriting Hey, Harris, I stayed till about 7 but had to go home, or my parents would murder me. You stopped throwing up around 3 so it wasn't too bad. Pls hydrate and call me when you're up. Hope you're okay. I'm here for you if you need anything. —Seb

I wrack my brain, trying to recall last night. Crying. I remember a lot of crying, all while someone held me. I can't remember if it was in the back of Seb's truck or in my bed. But I think I sobered up a few hours before Seb left, at least enough to remember his arms around me, holding me tight against him like he never wanted to let go. That definitely happened.

I sit up, trying to recall other information. When I try to rub the sleep out of my eyes, I wince at how sore they are. Yep. Got punched. Forgot about that. What happened after that?

A few things come to mind, like Bachata Girl, and Saanvi cussing someone out. Liam wiping the blood off my—

Liam.

I want to throw up again, although this time, for a different reason than pure over-intoxication. Holy shit. He tried, yesterday, he tried—I can't.

Holy shit.

I scramble out of my bed, kicking the covers off myself and catching my ankle on my sheets. I trip and fall down onto the cement floor, landing uncomfortably on my wrists. My heart is hammering straight through my chest. I can't breathe.

It couldn't have been that bad. I've got to be wrong.

That's it, I'm misremembering. I stand up, brush myself off, and glance down at the floor. I'm wearing a worn white cross-country shirt, and on the floor is my yellow shirt from last night. It smells disgusting, and there's blood all over the front of it. Which, great. I'm sure my mom can get it out, but I don't think she'll enjoy me explaining that I was wounded at yet another party.

She might be able to notice though. I turn on my phone's selfie cam to see how bad the bruising under my eyes is. And, yep. It's really bad. She will definitely be noticing. Tenderly, I tap my nose and wince. It hurts like a bitch, but upon further examination, I'm pretty sure it's not broken. So, if nothing else, at least there's that.

How can I explain this one to her?

And, honestly, forget just explaining it to my mom—how do I explain this to myself? I'm unsure of what happened, but one thing I know is that it wasn't good.

Liam wiping the blood off my neck, everything feeling cold and mushy; Evan's fist lit up a sickening green by the LED lights; Saanvi yelling at—at who, at me?

Ugh. Why can't I remember?

I'm trying to sort out what I want to say when I hear the basement door open. Mom's footsteps are louder than usual, signifying she either wants to let me know she's coming down so I can make myself decent, or she's pissed. I listen to a few more footsteps to be sure.

Oh, she is so pissed.

"Who was that boy I caught sneaking out at seven a.m.?" she asks as she rounds the corner, then gasps when she sees my face.

"Ummmmm," I say, deciding on the lesser of two evils, "what boy?"

"Baby, what happened to your face?" She's on me in seconds, examining me, poking my nose and trying to make my eyes follow her index finger. They don't follow, but they do roll. "What on earth did you get into last night?"

"It's fine," I insist, pulling away from her. Wow, does my head hurt. Fuck. "I'm all good."

"That doesn't tell me what happened," she says, crossing her arms. All moms have a Mom Look. My mom's might be the scariest. "So. What happened?"

"Nothing! I'm serious."

"Who hit you?" she asks, her voice hard. "Was it Liam?"

"No!" But my voice catches in my throat, because suddenly, it's like I can feel his teeth on my throat. When did that happen? Why can't I remember?

"Baby," Mom says, her gaze turning to pitying.

"Stop! Just stop. It wasn't Liam. It was Evan Miller."

"Neil's kid?"

I don't know who Neil is, but it sounds about right. "Probably?" The Look intensifies. "Jesus, Mom, yes, okay?"

"Why did Neil's kid hit you?"

I toss my hands up in the air. "I honestly do not remember, mother."

"Don't call me 'mother' in a voice like that." She's pointing at me, a disarming combination of Mom Look and Mom Finger. "Seriously. Do not speak to me in that tone."

"Whatever. I'm sorry."

She sighs. "If you're drinking so much that you don't remember the night before, then you are drinking wayyyy too much, Harrison. I know I'm pretty lax with you, and you're an adult and all, but I'm not going to sit back and watch you behave like an idiot. Getting black out drunk and fighting Neil's kid—"

Oh my god. "Okay, Mom, who the fuck is Neil?"

"Don't change the subject!" It's rare she ever raises her voice to me. I instinctively recoil from her. She doesn't seem to notice, or at least care. "Harrison Duncan McCammon. You graduated high school less than two weeks ago. You can't be acting like this in your first couple weeks of freedom. Contrary to your beliefs, you are not an adult. You're a child who can't even pretend to be grown."

"Mom, I—"

"I am speaking. Now. The rules for drinking, if you were planning on being stupid and drinking in high school. Remember those? Don't drink excessively, and don't get into trouble."

"Yes."

"Yes?"

I grumble, "Yes, ma'am."

Her glare is piercing, yet simultaneously pleading. "You did both of those things last night. Seriously. Your scholarship is such a gift, Harrison, and you are absolutely prepared to blow it on some petty high school summer bullshit. Come the fuck on, baby. You should know better than that."

Steady breaths. There are walls in my brain, and they are closing in. I feel trapped. Like I can't breathe properly. But I don't know what to tell her. Last night was a lot, and I can't even remember everything.

I realize I've zoned out. "...so you're grounded until you can remember how to act like a mature human being. Comprende?"

"Grounded?" I can't believe this. I already feel shitty enough. "Mom, I'm eighteen."

"Yeah, well you know what?" She turns and starts storming back towards the steps. My mouth is agape, and shame quickly turns to simmering anger, boiling resentment. "My house, my rules. Sound good?"

"Sounds great!"

"Sarcasm only adds time to your sentence!" She slams the basement door behind her.

"Slamming doors is immature!"

The footsteps that have stomped halfway across the kitchen turn around and retrace their steps. She opens the door. "Fuck! You!"

My anger and frustration are at their boiling points. I can't believe this. After everything last night, this is what I get to wake up to. Now I feel like I can't even go upstairs for pain medication. "Also very mature!"

"You want mature?"

"I'd LOVE mature!"

"Fine then! I'll call Grandma to come babysit you. How's that?"

Oh, fuck my life. "Great! It sounds peachy! Grandma and I will spend the whole night playing Parcheesi and talking about how much it fucking sucks being related to you!"

"Good! Then you'll have plenty to talk about!"

She slams the door behind her once more. I don't bother to point it out this time.

A/N - omfg i have been watching so much survivor, sos okay BYE <3