Reaching my hand out, I tenderly trace my fingertips over her flawless facial features—along her cheekbones, down her nose, across her lips—praying I get another chance to show her what she means to me, to prove to her that I want nothing more than to be with her. She’s my happiness. My snow angel.

“This feels like a dream,” she murmurs without opening her eyes, “and I don’t ever want to wake up.”

My heart swells with hope as I continue to skim my fingers over her porcelain skin. “You’re my dream, Hudson,” I whisper softly.

Neither of us says another word, and after about an hour or so, once I’m sure she’s good and asleep, I begrudgingly crawl off the bed. As much as I want to stay with her all night, I know I can’t. Her waking up hung over, only to find me asleep in bed next to her, may end in serious bodily injury on my part. I’d rather my apology speech be violence and vomiting-free.

Striding around to her side of the bed, I press my lips to her forehead in a goodnight kiss, and as I turn to leave, something shiny on her nightstand catches my attention. I inhale a jagged breath as I pick up the cracked cigarette case, and as I stare at it, my chest constricts with guilt. I will find a way to make this right. No matter what happens between us, I have to fix this.

I drop the case in my back pocket then tiptoe out of her room, closing the door behind me. My hope was to get out of the house completely unnoticed by anyone else, but as I turn to do just that, I’m met face-to-face with a smirking Grams.

“Come on, boy,” she orders, motioning for me to follow her. “It’s time we talked.”

A marching band of sumo wrestlers has taken up residence inside my head, and I’m pretty sure they’re rehearsing Metallica’s Enter Sandman over and over and over again. I’ve mentally begged them to stop for at least an hour, but they continue to ignore me. Fuckers.

The wad of sandpaper lodged in the back of my throat is worse than any cottonmouth I’ve ever experienced, and my eyelids feel like they’re sewn shut, refusing to open no matter how hard I will them to. Finally, when my expanding bladder threatens to burst, the invisible seal holding them together releases, and I’m able to slowly pry them apart.

The framed picture of my family sitting on my nightstand is the first thing that comes into focus, proving my suspicion that I am indeed at home. Weird. Wasn’t I supposed to stay the night at my sisters’ apartment? How did I end up here?

I move to slide off the bed, attempting to remember what happened last night, when every muscle and joint in my body screams out in agony, pleading for me not to move again. Good Lord, was I hit by a car? A semi, maybe? With the nosedive my life’s taken recently, I wouldn’t be surprised. And now, I’m seriously wondering what the fuck happened.

As I inch my way down to the floor and then creep at a snail’s pace toward the bathroom, I scroll through my memory log, trying desperately to pull up some recollection of last night—anything—but I’m drawing a big, fat blank after we left my house and showed up at the party.

I remember a lot of people being inside the house, more than I expected, and Dakota telling me only to take drinks from one of them as she handed me a red plastic cup filled with a slushie drink that tasted like frozen fruit punch with a bite. Then, we went outside, and there was music and a bonfire, and that’s about where it goes black. I’ve got nothing else. Must’ve been some bite.

If this is how drinking always makes you feel the next day, I’m not sure why in the hell anyone does it. Never once after smoking pot—and there have been nights I’ve been stoned silly—have I physically hurt the next day or gotten so fucked up that I blacked out.

This shit is terrible.

I bounce off something solid, my head ricocheting backwards. I crack a crusty eyelid. Brighton. Maybe Denver. Someone shorter than me.

“What’s wrong with you?” the smaller person asks.

Hunching over, grabbing their shoulders, I attempt to make eye contact, but all I can manage to get in my field of vision is a nose.

“Don’t. Ever. Drink.”

Then, I lurch past them, my only goal the bathroom with its porcelain shrine, where I feel the sudden need to worship.

Locking the bathroom door behind me, I fall onto the toilet in the most ungraceful of moves, wincing as the pain shoots sharply through my limbs and core. After I take the longest pee of my life, I stumble to the sink and splash ice-cold water over my face before daring to look in the mirror, not that it does anything to improve the scary image staring back at me.

Holy hot mess! I have been hit by a car!

The matted strands of my hair close to my face are sticking up in directions that defy gravity, and the long tendrils in the back are twisted and tied into a straw nest that I’m not sure a full bottle of detangler can handle. Mascara is smudged under both of my eyes, which are so swollen they’re merely slits resting atop my pale cheeks.

Last night’s clothes, sans the boots, hang limply on my frame, a stale smell coming from them—or maybe that’s just me. And the hideous reindeer dancing across my chest laugh at me, because they remember what happened, making me want to rip this damn sweater apart at the seams. Just squinting at myself is exhausting. If negative energy was a thing, that’s what I’d be feeling right now. Less than nothing.

Hangovers fucking suck.

Brushing my teeth takes ten times longer than normal, since every time my toothbrush ventures near the back of my mouth, I gag and lean my head over the toilet, spewing liters of red shit into the basin. I think some even comes out of my nose. It’s at this point I vow to never drink again in my life. One time was plenty for me.

Once I’m confident the volcano has finished erupting, I swallow four ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet and chase them down with water from the sink. Twisting the knob firmly to the cold side, I slide out of my clothes with the least amount of movement possible, praying the needles of water will magically heal me.

Taking a quick glance at myself in the mirror right before stepping into the tub, I spy a bandage on my upper wrist that was hidden by the long sleeves of the sweater. Holding my breath, I hastily peel the bandage back to reveal a pretty nasty-looking, bloody scrape that appears to have been cleaned and covered in some cream. How did I do this? Who helped me? My sisters? Is that why they brought me home?

Panic rises inside me as the unanswered questions build up, and my hands shake as I pull back the shower curtain. As soon as I clean up, I’m calling Dakota to find out exactly what went down. But first, a shower.

None of them are answering their phones. Not calls, not texts, nothing. I peer down at my watch and note that it’s only a little before ten, so I assume they’re all still asleep, but still…I groan with frustration, quickly reaching the point of insanity as I mull over the possibilities of last night’s events.

That’s it. I’m going to their apartment. I don’t care if I have to beat down the damn door; I need to know, and I need to know now. Maybe I’ll stop and get doughnuts and coffees on the way as an upfront apology for waking them up. Yes, that’s perfect.

Yoga pants and a thermal is all I can muster up the energy to put on. My wet hair goes into a single braid, and I don’t bother with any makeup, not even my favorite strawberry lip balm. I can’t think coherently enough to try to impress anyone. I’m just happy to have found two matching shoes. Once I get some answers, I’m coming straight back home and sleeping the rest of the day away.