The thing about the Captain’s house is, someone pretty much always winds up puking. This time, it’s Ollie.
He makes it to the kitchen sink and then leans there, spitting into the garbage disposal. When I ask if he wants me to take him home, he shrugs and says he just needs to lie down for a while, which is Ollie-speak for yes, he wants to go home, but he’s worried about puking in my car. I get him a glass of water and leave him lying on his face on the floor of Hez’s bathroom.
Without him there to run interference, I’m fair game for the kind of life choices he’d usually keep me away from. When I scroll through my phone, though, Heather’s name is missing from my contacts. Instead, there’s a new entry all the way at the bottom: You Don’t Want to Do This.
I laugh a little, but it’s not a good laugh. It’s short and dry, and even when he’s not around to say it, Ollie knows the deal. How long has it been since I texted her? Long enough that her name could have been missing for months. Long enough I’ve nearly forgotten how shitty it feels knowing I don’t feel that way about her. But her mouth is warm, her breasts are amazing, and she will always call me back.
I’m in the living room messing with the stereo when she finds me.
She’s the girl I’m supposed to be with—the one who will always wait for me to call first, and maybe even notice that I’ve spent every night for the last week getting stoned at my brother’s house, but won’t make things weird by asking about it. She’s the girl who will always have a joke or an excuse, and then back off if things get too close to actual.
She’s clearly drunk and doesn’t mind that I’m not in the mood to talk. It’s easy to just lean into it. Make out with her. Enjoy it.
I can’t remember if the Captain’s story about Hez and the recliner actually involved him pissing on anything. Chances are pretty good that it did. The chair is more comfortable than the couch, though, and when I put my face down close to the upholstery, it smells okay.
We’re tangled up with each other, sinking into the cushions, and then Heather starts running her hands up and down my shoulders. When she touches my chest, it makes me feel keyed up in a dirty way. I put my hand on her back, right above her butt, and she presses against me, leaning in for the kiss.
Her body is soft, and I wish that whatever I’m feeling for her would be more than just a crazy urge to put my hand up her shirt. The way I feel when she wedges her thigh between my knees kind of makes me hate myself.
“I’m not wearing a bra,” she whispers, like I wasn’t already obscenely aware of it. She’s getting lip gloss all over my ear.
I touch the side of her breast, the curve of her waist. There’s nothing but a layer of shirt between us. I’m falling into it, getting lost in the feeling of her mouth on mine, when someone starts to laugh. It’s a flat, scornful sound.
When I open my eyes, Waverly Camdenmar is standing in the corner with her hip cocked out to one side, arms folded, eyebrows raised. She’s wearing blue pajamas, with a collar and a pocket and buttons shaped like birds. She has the weirdest look on her face—this mix of fascination and disgust, like she’s watching something repugnant on TV. Like I’m the punch line.