So I take another. And then another.
Then I squint at her and say, "Why did you just tell me that?" But Haven just shrugs. "Drina just wanted you to know."
Twenty-Eight
After the festival, we pile into Haven's car, make a quick stop at her house to refill her flask, then head into town where we park on the street, stuff the meter full of quarters, and storm the sidewalks, three across, arms linked, making all the other pedestrians move out of our way, as we sing "(You Never) Call Me When You're Sober," at the top of our lungs and wildly off-key.
Staggering in fits of laughter every time someone snickers and shakes their head at us.
And when we pass one of those New Age bookstores advertising psychic readings, I just roll my eyes and avert my gaze, thrilled that I'm no longer part of that world, now that the alcohol's released me, now that I'm free.
We cross the street to Main Beach, and stumble past Hotel Laguna, until we fall onto the sand, legs overlapping, arms entwined, passing the flask back and forth, and mourning its loss the moment it's empty "Crap!" I mumble tilting my head all the way back and tapping hard on the bottom and sides, straining for every last drop. "Jeez, take it easy." Miles looks at me. "Just sit back and enjoy the buzz."
But I don't want to sit back. And I am enjoying the buzz. I just want to make sure it continues.
Now that my psychic bonds have been broken, I want to ensure they stay broken. "Wanna go to my house?" I slur, hoping Sabine's not at home so we can get to the leftover Halloween vodka and keep the buzz rolling.
But Haven shakes her head. "Forget it," she says. "I'm wrecked. I'm thinking of ditching the car and crawling back home."
"Miles?" I gaze at him, my eyes pleading, not wanting the party to end. This is the first time I've felt so light, so free, so unencumbered, so normal, since-well, since Damen went away.
"Can't." He shakes his head. "Family dinner. Seven-thirty sharp. Tie optional. Straightjacket required." He laughs, falling onto the sand, as Haven topples over and joins him.
"Well, what about me? What am I supposed to do?" I cross my arms and glare at my friends, not wanting to be left on my own, watching as they laugh and roll around together, oblivious to me.
The next morning, even though I oversleep, the first thing I think when I open my eyes is: My head's not pounding!
At least not in the usual way.
Then I roll over, reach under my bed, and retrieve the bottle of vodka I stashed there last night, taking a long deep swig and I closing my eyes as its warm wonderful numbness blankets my tongue and sinks down my throat.
And when Sabine peeks her head in my room to see if I'm up, I'm thrilled to see her aura has vanished from sight.
"I'm awake!" I say; shoving the bottle under a pillow and rushing over to hug her. Anxious to see what kind of energy exchange there will be, and elated when there is none. "Isn't it a beautiful day?" I smile, my lips feeling clumsy and loose as they unveil my teeth.
She gazes out the window and back at me. "If you say so." She shrugs.
I look past my french doors and into a day that's gray; overcast, and rainy. But then again, I wasn't referring to the weather. I was referring to me. The new me.
The new, improved, non psychic me!
"Reminds me of home." I shrug, slipping out of my nightgown and into the shower.
The second Miles gets in my car he takes one look at me, and goes, "What the-?"
I gaze down at my sweater, denim mini, and ballet flats, relics Sabine saved from my old life, and smile.
"I'm sorry, but I don't accept rides from strangers," he says, opening the door and pretending to climb back out.
"It's me, really. Cross my heart and hope to-well, just trust that it's me." I laugh. "And close your door already, I don't need you falling out and making us late."
"I don't get it," he says, gaping at me. "I mean, when did this happen? How did this happen? Just yesterday you were practically wearing a burka, and now it looks like you've raided Paris Hilton's closet!"
I look at him.
"Only classier, way classier."
I smile, pushing down on the gas, my wheels sliding and lifting off the soggy wet street and easing up only when I remember how my internal cop radar is gone and Miles starts screaming.
"Seriously, Ever, what the hell? Omigod, are you still drunk?"
"No!" I say, a little too quickly. "I'm just, you know; coming out of my shell, that's all. I can be kind of — shy, for the first several-months." I laugh. "But trust me, this is the real me." I, nod, hoping he buys it.
"Do you realize you've picked the wettest, most miserable day of the year to come out of your shell?"