With Mom gone on Friday, and the house empty, Ainsley and I settled in for a night eating junk food, watching Netflix, and feeling sorry for me.
To add to my misery—something that felt oddly satisfying—I distracted myself throughout the movie by scrolling through pictures of prom as they were uploaded. There was a picture of Winona, looking stunning in a figure-hugging, glittery pink gown. Ray with a group of her friends, wearing a magenta jumpsuit. Brougham, Finn, Hunter, and Luke, posing with a group of senior guys, laughing at a joke I’d never hear.
Brougham’s smile met his eyes. I loved how that looked.
He’d texted me the night before to check in on me, and I’d thanked him for his concern and updated him on the suspension thing, but didn’t keep the conversation going. I was buried in a cloud of shame and embarrassment, and I just didn’t want to talk about it. All I wanted to do was eat junk food and put my social and academic downfall out of my mind, to be dealt with properly next week.
“Your turn next year,” Ainsley said as she caught sight of the photos. “Any drama?”
“None that I know of.”
“Ah. The stories will start coming out on Monday. Let me know if they involve anyone I might know.”
I wondered how Brooke was feeling, seeing these photos of Ray. I wished I could comfort her. I wished even more that I’d never hurt them.
Then, amazingly, my phone started vibrating with a call, and I scrambled to answer it. Brooke? I didn’t care what she was calling for, to yell at me, or to cry to me, as long as she spoke to me.
But it was Finn. Ainsley paused the movie while I answered.
“It’s Brougham,” said Finn as soon as he heard my voice.
I shot up so quickly I pulled a muscle in my neck. “What happened?”
“Some shit went down over here, I’ll tell you later, but long story short he’s really wasted.”
“Brougham is?”
“I’ve never seen him like this. I’m scared what his parents might do if he goes home right now.”
Furniture thrown. Insults hurled. Doors slammed and threats screamed. And that’s just what I’d witnessed.
No, I didn’t want Brougham going home right now, either. “Where’s Winona?”
“She went home a while ago. She won’t pick up her phone.”
Something bitter and jealous kicked against the inside of my stomach at the realization that Finn had called Winona to come for Brougham first, as ridiculous as that was. And then a hurt, mean part of me piped up that I should tell Finn to keep trying Winona. Say that Alexander Brougham was not my responsibility. He had chosen Winona, after all, so who exactly was I to him?
But it was Brougham.
It was Brougham, and I would never, ever do that.
“And your mom is on the trip, right? Can you help?”
Honestly, it was never a question. “Ains,” I said. “Can I borrow your car? We have a situation.”
The prom after-party was still well underway, with groups of teenagers spilling out into the front yard, standing around on their phones or taking selfies by the string up in the oak tree, or sitting slumped by the porch. The main party seemed to be in the backyard—I could see heads bobbing over the side fence, and the thudding music seemed to be coming from there, too. The house was secluded, at the end of a dirt road lined by houses on enormous properties filled with horses and goats. I could see why they’d elected to have the party here.
At first I’d offered to go alone, too guilty to ask Ainsley to get dressed and leave the house so late on my account. But when she’d pointed out someone needed to ride alongside Brougham to keep him safe on the ride home, I couldn’t argue. The only caveat Ainsley had was telling Mom what we were doing, but she took the responsibility for that one, so I wouldn’t technically be breaking my grounding. Not if it was Ainsley who wanted someone to stay over.
I texted Finn as we pulled up. There was no point entering the lion’s den hoping to pull off a search and rescue mission; we’d just end up chasing each other all over the house.
Now we just had to hope he remembered to check his phone through the haze of alcohol and god-knew-what-else.
“Is that Luke?” Ainsley asked, sitting up straighter in her seat.
I squinted. “Ainsley, that looks literally nothing like him.”
“Well, I don’t know, it’s been a while.”
“It’s been ten months since you left school!”
“Right.” She gave me a grave look. “Ten long months that changed me in ways you couldn’t imagine.”
“Sure thing, Ains.”
“Okay, that’s definitely him. By the porch.”
This time, she was right. There was Luke, dressed in a rumpled tuxedo, walking—or, rather, stumbling, alongside Finn. Between them, they supported Brougham, who was making a frankly pitiful attempt at walking. His hair was messy and sticking to his forehead with sweat, his eyes were glazed over and unfocused, and his posture gave the overall impression of someone whose bones had inexplicably evaporated. He was wearing a dress shirt that’d once been white but was now stained in a medley of yellows and pinks.
He looked miserable.
I practically launched myself headfirst out of the car to run to them. Ainsley followed at my heels.
“Hey,” I breathed as I reached the boys. Finn looked relieved. Brougham lifted a heavy head and glowered at me.
“I’m fine,” he said, wrenching his arm out of Luke’s grip. He wrenched a little too hard, though, and went stumbling into Finn, who’d already braced himself for the impact.
“If even I think you’re not fine, you’re not fine,” Finn said. “Hey, Ainsley.”
“Hey, you. Up to trouble, as usual, I see.”
“Me? I’ve been on my best behavior tonight, unlike some people we won’t name,” Finn said. “Brougham,” he added for clarification anyway.
Brougham wasn’t able to form a coherent response, but he did manage a groan of displeasure.
“Has he been sick?” I asked Finn as he and Luke helped Brougham to Ainsley’s car. Brougham’s head fell forward like all the muscles in his neck failed at once.
“No,” Brougham said, apparently still conscious despite appearances.
“A couple times, yeah,” Finn said. “You got a bucket?”
“Sure do. Hoping we won’t need it, but still.”
“I thought he passed out at one point, about thirty minutes ago, but he grunted when we poked him, so I think we’re safe. Then we poked him some more for fun, and he kept grunting, so. You know. That’s promising. Still, you might wanna keep a close eye on him for a little while. Call me if anything goes wrong, because his parents think he’s at my house tonight.”
“Wait, what?”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll text you his mom’s number just in case, okay?”
Not exactly, but it was too late now.
“What are the legal ramifications if he dies at my house?”
“Terrible. That’s why I’m passing him off to you.” Finn grinned and bent his knees to hoist a very floppy Brougham into the backseat, with Ainsley holding the door open for him. “There you go, bud. Comfy?”
Brougham squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his head back with a drawn-out moan.
While Finn tried to operate Brougham’s seat belt with drunken fingers, I went around to the other side and slid into the backseat beside him. Brougham watched Finn’s hands with a measure of interest.
“You okay?” I asked him over the revving engine.
He emerged from his daze and looked at me like he’d only just noticed I was there. Then his eyelids drooped, and his head tipped again. “I mmm sleep.”
“You can lean against me if you need to.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice. His cheek went straight to my shoulder, his hair tickling my collarbone and his breath warm against my chest as he began to breathe deeply and methodically. The way people tended to breathe when they were trying their hardest not to vomit.
I reached for the bucket and pulled it into my lap for safekeeping.
At home, it took both me and Ainsley to haul Brougham out of the car and all the way into the living room. Keeping him upright while also opening doors and fiddling with locks was no mean feat, either. By the time we deposited Brougham unceremoniously on the sofa, I was out of breath.
Ainsley sprinted to the car to fetch the bucket while I watched him. He slumped to one side, but stayed on the sofa.
“What happens if he starts throwing up?” I asked Ainsley when she returned.
“Why do you think we have the bucket?”
“Right, but wouldn’t it be, like, cleaner to take him to the bathroom?”
Ainsley shook her head as she plopped the empty bucket down by the sofa. “No. That’s how you get broken teeth.”
“What?” I was aghast.
“True story. It happened to a guy in my class. He was leaning over the bowl and his head dropped down and—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I cut in. “Do we have anything we can give him to sleep in?”
“Um … god, this would be easier if we had Dad. How about Sparkly Sweater?” she said, referring to the oversized, cream wool knit sweater covered in glittery golden polka dots I’d worn to death in sophomore year.
“Why can’t he borrow something of yours? You’re taller than me!”
“Yeah but you’re wider, Miss ‘Child-Bearing Hips.’ Sparkly Sweater’s the baggiest thing either of us owns.”
Brougham had shuffled backward to lean heavily against the couch. “Would you like a glass of water?” I asked him. He didn’t seem to hear me. “… I’ll get you a glass.”
Ainsley traipsed into the kitchen with Sparkly Sweater while I was filling the glass. “Do you think he can dress himself right now?” she asked.
I regarded the sweater in horror as blood rushed into my cheeks. “Oh.”
We gave each other a stricken look.
“I’m not doing it,” she said.
“I’m not doing it! He’s my friend.”
“Uh, yeah. That’s exactly why it should be you.”
“Friends who made out a few weeks ago, might I remind you? Besides, you’re older than him, it’ll be like a big sister–little brother situation.”
“We don’t have that kind of relationship!”
Awesome. It seemed like my choices were: a) put Ainsley in an uncomfortable position, b) leave Brougham to marinate in his sweat-alcohol-and-vomit-soaked shirt all night, or c) systematically and platonically assist a friend of mine in changing his shirt.
I was making way too big a deal out of this. Why was I doing that?
Because, a voice whispered, he is not just a friend, and you know it.
Well, tough. Right now, he was just going to have to be.
And, frankly, I wasn’t trying to cross any lines on purpose here: I would have by far preferred Winona to be the one looking after her boyfriend tonight. If she called Brougham’s phone in the next thirty seconds or so, I’d happily pass the job off to her to avoid the sheer awkwardness of it all.
“Okay, fine. Fine. Can you grab some sheets or something for the couch then?”
“On it.”
I knelt in front of Brougham with a glass of water and Sparkly Sweater while Ainsley traipsed off to the linen closet.
Brougham was propped up against the couch, motionless and eyes closed. I shuffled forward and gave his upper arm a small squeeze. “Hey, you awake?”
He opened his eyes with a start and nodded.
“I have something for you to sleep in.”
Unfocused eyes took in Sparkly Sweater, and he nodded with a renewed determination. “Thank you.” His words were already resembling English more than at the party. He started unbuttoning his shirt, and I rocked back on my haunches, hopeful that maybe I wouldn’t have to intervene after all. Unfortunately, he got three buttons down and gave up, pulling the shirt over his head instead, where he got promptly stuck.
“Help,” he said in a pitiful voice, as I assisted him to shimmy the shirt over his face and off his arms. I did my very best not to look at the smooth muscles of his arms, or the unblemished, soft skin of his bare chest, or the small folds that creased across his belly button as he hunched forward. Or the light patch of fuzz near said belly button. Or the sharp jutting of his collarbone.
Apparently, an attempt did not equal success.
I fixed my eyes firmly on his face and helped him pull the sweater on. This must be what it was like to dress a toddler. If the toddler was almost six feet tall.
Sparkly Sweater was definitely too short in the arms, but it did the job. Also, I’d never seen him in anything that wasn’t high quality and curated—yes, including his casual pajamas look at the mixer—so the overall effect was a little ridiculous.
He started on his fly button with sloppy fingers, and, to my intense relief, managed to figure it out and pull his pants off without the need for my assistance, leaving him in Sparkly Sweater and boxer briefs. “Ow,” he said dully, flexing his right hand. I noticed for the first time it was red and puffy.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Mmph mmm.”
Oh, that cleared things up.
By this point he was out of breath at the sheer enormity of the tasks given to him, and he wilted while Ainsley came in with some blankets and pillows for a makeshift bed. Brougham allowed us to help him onto the couch, and, a few layers of blankets later, he was safely cocooned.
Then Brougham rolled over to lie all but unconscious on his back. Ainsley shook her head at this and grabbed some of the throw cushions from the armchairs.
“What are you doing?” I asked as she wedged them in between Brougham and the couch, pulling Brougham onto his side.
She directed her reply at Brougham, not me. “You’re not to sleep on your back tonight,” she said, slowly and clearly. “Stay on your side. The bucket’s going to be here. Okay?”
Brougham made a noise of acknowledgment, but didn’t open his eyes.
Ainsley looked back at me now. “If he’s on his side he can’t choke on his vomit. Better safe than sorry.”
“Jeez, since when are you an expert on treating drunks?” I asked in surprise.
“College has changed me. I’ve seen things, Darcy.”
“Damn. Respect.”
Given that it was now close to two in the morning, Ainsley, understandably, headed off to bed. And suddenly, it was just me. Me, and a very drunk guy who might or might not be my friend. It was hard to say at this point.
To be fair, that did describe most people in my life now, though, so.
Sighing, I sat on the floor in front of the sofa. I should probably have been asleep by now, but adrenaline had woken me right up. Besides, I wanted to stick around for a little while, just in case.
Brougham was fast asleep already, his cheek smushed against one hand. He was breathing steadily. That was good, right? Nothing to worry about.
I stuck one headphone earbud in, keeping the other ear free to listen out for any changes, and pulled a movie up on my phone.
About halfway in, just as I was starting to feel sleepy, Brougham stirred.
Through the dark, I could just make out his large, soulful eyes. Those intense, beautiful eyes. Boring into me. He blinked slowly, long, thick lashes brushing against the tops of his cheekbones. “Darcy?”
“Yeah?”
“Why did you come for me?”
“Because you needed me.”
He kept staring at me with wide eyes, his mouth working. All I wanted to do in that moment, what everything in me was screaming at me to do, was lean in and embrace him. To stroke his hair and promise him I’d always be there if he needed me. To run the tip of my finger along the curve of his neck down to his shoulder, and assure him there was nothing he could do that would make me abandon him.
But I couldn’t promise that, because I’d already left him once.
And the price I had to pay for that was knowing I couldn’t do any of those things. I could never touch him like that again.
I could never kiss him again.
And before long, I wouldn’t be able to remember what he tasted like. And then it would be like none of this had ever really happened at all.
And, worst of all, was the way he was looking at me, with his mouth slightly open, and his chin leaning forward, and his breathing thick. He looked like he wanted to be kissed. In that moment, in the dark, in the quiet, I felt that if I’d leaned in, he maybe would’ve closed the rest of the gap between us. He maybe would’ve pulled me hard against him, kissing me the way I hadn’t let him kiss me the first time.
But I just. Couldn’t.
“How are you feeling?” I whispered.
“My head hurts.”
“Have some water.”
He propped himself up, unsteady, and took the glass from me. His fingers brushed against mine. I hadn’t done it on purpose, and I felt ashamed of the shiver that ran across my shoulders.
“Did Finn tell you about Winona?” he asked, his words thick and fuzzy.
“Yeah. That’s why he called me. Sorry you’re stuck with me instead.”
Brougham hooked his gaze back onto me, earnest. “I’m not.”
Yes, well, I was through criticizing people’s girlfriends, so I ignored him. “It’s just Ainsley and me here tonight,” I said while he took small, slow sips. “There’s a towel next to your clothes here. You can take a shower whenever you like. We sleep upstairs so it won’t wake us. There should be a new toothbrush in the cabinet, too. Feel free to take it.”
He blinked, trying to digest the information. I had to remind myself just because he was conscious now didn’t mean he was sober.
Another in a myriad of good reasons to keep my distance.
As carefully as he could, he placed the glass back down on the carpet and managed not to spill it. The act of leaning over the side of the sofa brought his face close to mine, and I wriggled backward quickly, my breath catching. I had to move, because I wanted to stay put so badly. To let our lips meet.
He looked up and took me in as I moved back, eyes unfocused but still sharp enough to notice. He rested his head back down, looking at me without saying a word.
That wasn’t nothing.
This wasn’t nothing.
So, I got to my feet, swallowing. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Will you be okay down here?”
He hardened his face. “Yeah,” he said in a voice that was too perfectly upbeat to be quite right.
“Okay. Good night.”
He chewed on his bottom lip, then, finally, nodded. “’Night.”
Poor Brougham spent the better half of the next morning throwing up in the bathroom.
Luckily for Ainsley and me, he was perfectly capable of using a toilet by this point, so there was no bucket to deal with, but it was still pretty awful to hear. After breakfast, Ainsley made one pointed comment about the fact that she couldn’t film anything with that kind of background music. I suggested she purposely create something hideous and lean into the ambience. She didn’t find the idea quite as funny as I did, but she did soften when Brougham zombie-walked back to the sofa to curl up into a ball wearing nothing more than socks, underwear, and Sparkly Sweater.
“I can run these through the washer and dryer,” I suggested, gesturing to his clothes. “You probably don’t wanna put them back on as is.”
“I can’t ask you to wash my shit,” Brougham moaned, burying his face head-down into the cushion. “It’s humiliating.”
“Yeah, well, you might need to rise above it.”
“I’m sorry.” He peeked over the cushion at me, eyes full of contrition.
“Don’t worry about it. I’d rather you be here than at your house.”
He cringed, and nodded, and I headed off to fix up his clothing. Finn had offered his own place as a refuge for Brougham as soon as Brougham was well enough to get there. But Brougham hadn’t yet made it a full twenty minutes without vomiting violently, so that option was off the table for now.
Speaking of, from the sound of things he was back in the bathroom. I waited in the living room for him, but when he hadn’t returned after a particularly long time, I went to check on him. Rapping on the door, I asked if everything was okay.
“Yeah.” His voice was small. “You can come in if you want.”
He was on his knees in front of the toilet, resting on our fluffy gray mat, his shoulder flung over the seat and his head resting sideways on it. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, and the color had drained from his face. He didn’t open his eyes as I came in. “I don’t even have anything left in my stomach,” he panted. “I’m just throwing up air.”
“Since when do you drink so much?” I asked, trying to keep it curious rather than judgy.
All I got in response was a hand wave. None of my business, apparently. Okay, fair.
“I don’t think … my head … has ever hurt this much in my life.”
“You took the Tylenol I grabbed you earlier?”
“Yup. Didn’t touch it.” He squeezed his eyes even tighter, then flipped back around to retch into the bowl. Like he said, nothing came out.
It was okay if I rubbed his back, wasn’t it? That was platonic enough. I gingerly reached out and pressed my palm flat against Sparkly Sweater to make small circles.
When the retching stopped, Brougham gave a frustrated sob. “Knock me out until it’s over. It’s cruel to keep me conscious right now.”
“It’s just a bit of poisoning, it’ll be over soon. Our bodies don’t like being poisoned.”
“You don’t say.” He caught his breath and kept his eyes closed. He didn’t shrug my hand off, though, so I could only assume it was helping.
The midmorning sun was streaming through the high bathroom window, casting a warm, bright glow over the gleaming white tiles and porcelain tub and sink. All the white probably wasn’t helping his headache any.
“What happened to your hand?” I asked. The redness on his knuckles from last night was gone, replaced by a purply-brown bruise.
“No idea, but it hurts like a bitch.”
“Can I help? Ice, or…?”
“No.” Something about the tone of his voice told me to leave the subject alone.
“Brougham?”
“Mmm?”
“Can we please be friends again?”
Now he opened his eyes, though he didn’t lift his head. “We never stopped.”
I gave a dry laugh.
“Okay, fair,” he said. “You’re right. We stuffed up there, and it’s been weird. I’d really like to be friends.”
Thank god. Thank god I had Brougham. Knowing that I hadn’t destroyed our friendship beyond repair didn’t fix everything, but it did make me feel like I had something to hold on to, where before I’d been treading water. “Cool.”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Oh, you know. Been better, but at least I’m not throwing up in my underwear in my teacher’s bathroom.”
I got a small smile out of him at that one. “I’m sorry about the locker.”
“Well, so am I. But maybe my mom was right. Maybe some of my advice was good, but I probably got it wrong all the time. I’m lucky I didn’t really screw anything up.”
I thought about what Brougham said about me not having enough information from one letter. I thought about my impression of Brougham at the beginning versus now. How my perception of him, and his issues, had changed. My success rate had always been such a source of pride for me. But how could I have been at such a high percentage? Really?
“You probably did get it wrong sometimes,” Brougham said, his voice weak from straining. “But that was never the point.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean maybe some people genuinely needed advice. But I’d bet you anything a good chunk of those letters were just people who wanted someone to listen to them without judging them, or to give them validation. It’s really powerful to have a safe place to just … let everything out.”
“Are you saying all I was good for was listening?” I asked, straightening where I sat.
“No. I’m saying you’re a genius who gave awesome advice a lot of the time, but the pressure you put on yourself to get everything perfectly right isn’t necessary.”
Huh.
There was something special about being seen the way that Brougham seemed to see me. Maybe Ainsley understood me in a similar way, but that was different, because she was my sister. This was someone who was a total stranger to me only months ago, sizing me up and listening to what I said—and listening harder still to what I didn’t say—and somehow correctly piecing it all together to understand me. And maybe he could do that because in some ways, we mirrored each other. We shared cracks in complementary places.
Brougham made me see the best version of myself, the kinder, wiser, more empathetic version I’d always wanted to be. And that was a hell of a lot to gain, which made it a hell of a lot to lose. And I almost had.
I was so scared to lose him again.
But that felt too intense to share. So, instead, I said, “And now everyone hates me.”
“They’ll forgive you eventually. Don’t worry too much.”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Well, if they don’t, I know a great school in Australia you can start fresh at.”
“Oh, true! And I know that working-class song now. I’ll fit right in.”
“Yep. Just make sure you call it exactly that, word for word, so they know you’re authentic.”
We giggled together, which triggered another round of unproductive retching for Brougham so intense he got tears of effort on the sleeves of Sparkly Sweater.
Well, on the bright side … at least I could be certain Winona wouldn’t be too threatened if she found out how I’d spent the morning with her boyfriend.