"You're all fuckin' liars," I say, holding my cup against my lips, my breath held. I don't flinch, my eyes playing defense against Wes's stare as I tip my cup back and swallow the remains of my last beer. I feel the vibration of my phone in my pocket, so I pull it out to confirm my father's cell phone number before putting it away and turning to face Wes one last time. "I know who you are. Why are you ashamed to admit it? Is it because I wasn't worth saving? Is that why?"
His brow is furrowed as he keeps his eyes on mine, his head shaking slightly side-to-side like he's trying to understand my language. To the rest of the room, this sounds like my usual drunken rant-nonsensical, meaningless conversation that will be forgotten in the morning. But my wits are there by a thread, and I'll remember this.
So will he.
"I'm out, Kyle. As always, thanks for taking me away from the shit for a while," I say, stumbling over the legs of the girls I don't really know and wrapping my arms around Kyle.
"You want me to come with?" he asks, and I squeeze his shoulder before bringing my face to his.
"Nah, I got it this time. I'm good," I shrug.
I kick at Taryn's feet, and she tilts her head to one side. She feels guilty because she's usually my ride home, but I know she's staying here with TK. And Taryn's seen my nightmare enough. She deserves a night off.
"I'm good. I promise," I say, tripping over her feet a little. It makes me laugh, but I catch myself quickly, holding up a hand and crossing my heart with the other.
"Okay, call me if you need me?" she says from her position wrapped deep in TK's arms. I hold my phone up and waggle it at her. I won't call, and she wouldn't answer-not tonight. And that's okay.
"It's been real, TK … Levi," I say, pounding both of their knuckles on my way through the living room. Conner and his girlfriend left the party a long time ago, so I don't bother with anyone else, instead giving over my attention to the buzz of a message on my phone.
I wait until I'm completely out of the house and walking down the driveway before I dial in and listen. It's the same message it always is, my dad's voice coming and going as he holds the phone at various distances from his face.
"Fucking assholes say you need to come get me," he puffs out, his face muffling his words as the rough stubble of his cheek presses into the phone. "I'll be out front. You can take the car … "
"Shit," I mutter to myself, looking at the time stamp from the message, feeling the vibration of my father's next call. It's only been two minutes. This is how it goes, though. He calls until I answer, or until I show up. I quit answering months ago, because it doesn't get me to him any faster, and not answering means I can enjoy these few minutes before I have to talk to him in person.
"You need a ride?" His voice comes out of the complete calm of the night behind me. My legs buckle from the adrenaline coursing through me as a result.
"Shshshshit!" I say, pressing the buzzing phone against my chest.
"Sorry," Wes says; I think maybe wincing a little.
"I'm fine. Go back to the party," I say, shaking my head and sighing with relief that the ringing has stopped. I push my phone back into my pocket and turn to head to the end of the block. Wes stays with me, though.
"You're lit," he says. "I don't feel comfortable with you walking home in the dark."
I laugh loudly, and turn to face him, continuing to shuffle backward. "Welcome to my every Saturday night, Christopher," I say with my hands out on either side.
"Right, uhm … I'm Wes," he nods, which only makes me laugh harder. I hold my hands to my stomach to exaggerate it, but he talks right through me. "You're not in a position to be walking along the road in the dark. Come on, I'll take you home."
"Ah, yeah, right … cuz you know where I live!" I say, holding a finger up. "Give it up. I just wanted to say thanks for what you did, but if you want to pretend that you're not him, whatever."
I'm slurring more, and my feet feel heavier. I can tell I passed the line, and I know I'm probably going to get sick any minute, but I have to make it to Jim's first. Wes walks away, and I turn around to go forward because this backward shit is making me dizzy. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and this time I pull it out and silence it.
I do my best to pick up my stride, and I'm close to the end of the block when I hear the familiar idle of Wes's truck pull alongside me. I chuckle to myself, and stop, turning to face him with my thumbs hanging from the pockets of my jeans.
"You left your jacket, Joss. I have it in the truck. Just … just get in," he says, and as if Mother Nature is in his corner, the breeze picks up, sending a chill over my bare shoulders, blowing the fabric of my tank top tight against my stomach.
"Fine," I say, feeling the buzz in my pocket begin again. I let it go this time, and when I slam the cab door shut in his truck, I can hear the phone's sound vibrate against his seat.
"You need to get that?" Wes asks.
I remind myself that he hasn't done this dance before, so I'm polite-or as polite as I can be with a burning esophagus, fading consciousness, and rancid taste of bile in my mouth.
"It's fine. He'll call back," I say, fumbling with the buckle. This truck doesn't even work right. Wes tugs the belt away from me and snaps it into place, pausing with his hands on the wheel before shifting into drive.
"Who'll call back, Joss?"
"My dad. It's … it's always my dad. It's fine; just … take me to Jim's. It's like, super close. You probably know where it is, though, because you, like, know everything," I say, and it comes out both sing-songy and bitchy. I don't mean it to, so I try to correct it. "It's okay that you know everything. I mean … whatever, right?"
He sighs heavily, laying his forehead against the steering wheel while he pushes the gear into place. I curl my legs up sideways and rest my head on his window, willing myself not to be sick.
"I don't know what Jim's is," he bites, and I roll my head to the side against the glass to meet his stare. His head is lying on his hands, against the wheel, and he looks as frustrated as I feel every time my phone vibrates against me. Maybe he doesn't know Jim's. Maybe he doesn't know anything at all. Maybe I've hit rock bottom, and I'm making things up in my head because I want to feel like I did when Christopher's arms held me away from the harms of the world. That was the last time I ever felt safe, and it was the day I almost died. I've been chasing that feeling for years, and maybe I just want to find it so badly that I'm seeing things.
"Fifth and Washburn," I answer in a whisper, mostly because I'm pretty sure if I speak any more loudly, I will lose everything in my stomach. "Just go three blocks to the right, and then turn left at Fifth. You'll see it."
His only response is a heavy exhale as he drives forward. His truck rides rough; every turn makes my stomach clench, and by the time we reach Jim's, I kick open his door just in time to puke all over the gravel parking lot beneath my feet. I hate the way it tastes. I hate everything about this part. But not enough that I won't do it again next weekend. I'd do it every day if I could, but my dad is home too often during the week. Not that he'd care, but it's just too much when it's both of us living in the fog. I can always count on Saturdays, though. I probably won't be able to afford college, but Jim-if there even is a Jim that this bar is named after-is probably driving a Mercedes by now, thanks to my dad's patronage.
"You okay?" Wes says, his hand tentative against my back. I shudder from his faint touch, and he pulls his hand away. I regret it instantly.
"I'm fine," I say, running the sleeve of my zip jacket along my jaw and stepping wide around my mess. My stomach feels better, but I know I'll do that again. I just hope I can wait until I get home. I don't want to throw up inside Wes's truck.
Per the norm, my dad is sitting on the bench outside of Jim's, his phone in his hands while he repeats hitting the dial button over and over.
"Quit calling me; I'm here," I say, grabbing his arm and slinging it over my shoulder. Wes steps to the other side, pulling most of my father's dead weight against him. I'm embarrassed, but too grateful that I don't have to fall and drag him like I normally do to feel the sting of it right now.
"Awwww, Josselyn. Goddamnit! Don't bring him into our mess," my dad says, his eyes watery from his usual self-pity cry.
"This isn't our mess, Dad. It's yours. It's always yours," I say through gritted teeth. Maybe it is ours. But at least when it comes to my half, I never need any help getting home in the end. I'm like the family cat nobody wants; I could be dropped at the ends of the earth and somehow still find my way home on my feet.