Page 37 of Surviving You, Scotch and Sammy 1

“Can a guy have alcohol poisoning after an hour?”

Ang chuckles and shakes his head again, straightening up when Meg stumbles around, first crashing into Luc, then Marc, and finally pricking herself on my mom’s rose bushes. She jumps forward quickly, but her giggles turn to piggy snorts as she holds her stomach and cackles. The world spins on it’s axis as Sammy’s beautiful eyes come down to meet mine. She has six of them. And three heads.

“You’re so pretty.”

“Hey, are you okay, Sam? You don’t look so good.”

“Ermmmokay.”

“You wanna sit?”

I shake my head sluggishly. “Nahmokay.”

I watch as she shrugs her six shoulders, then lifting three cans of soda to her lips, she thirstily chugs some more. She shakes her heads to clear the bubbles from her nose, but waves crash inside my own head, deafening me to Meg’s continued cackles, or the soft questions Angelo asks me. I attempt to shake my head to clear the fog, but instead, I shake my ass because my body broke, and fire races up my throat and my stomach comes crashing out into my mama’s rose bushes. Steam rises off the pile of puke, then soda sprays down next to it. Vomit dribbles out the side of my lips, and I look up to find Sammy pawing at her face as soda leaks from her nose. Her mouth moves like she’s laughing, but the waves in my brain continue to deafen me. I look to my left to find Meg rolling on the grass in hysterics, then Marc watching her as he holds his own stomach and laughs.

I’m fucked.

– Sammy –

A Truce with Poot

On Monday morning, a full two days and nights after Sam passed out on his mother’s lawn and Angelo drove Meg and me home, we all walk into school with dark eyes and sluggish steps.

Sam walks in with dark sunglasses secured over his eyes, and his bag hanging low on his slack shoulders. I haven’t seen him since I watched Luc and Marc lift him from the cold grass, but we’ve texted, and he assured me he was alive, but my first images of him this morning leave me giggling. He looks miserable, and though Meg looks almost as ill, he looks way worse. I walk toward him and the guys, and I thread my arms around his waist. His hand comes up to my hair, pushing my face against his broad chest, even as his breathing is labored and he grunts in agony.

“Don’t you spew in my hair, Turner.”

“I feel like death,” he complains. “It’s been two days and I still feel half drunk.”

“Probably shouldn’t drink that much scotch ever again.” I snicker as his chest rumbles with exasperation.

“I’m never drinking scotch ever again, Ricci. Full stop. My kidneys would probably rip their way through my skin and run away if I even considered it.”

I kiss his chest softly, and as though my touch relaxes him, he lets out a deep cleansing breath. He drops his lips on the top of my head, breathing deeply then exhaling and warming my scalp. “I feel all better now, Ricci. You’re my antidote. You make everything better.”

“Aww,” Meg croons, standing in the center of our group with tired eyes but a genuine smile. “Hungover and miserable, he’s still adorable.”

“How you doing, Poot?”

Meg’s eyes flash wide, and her long hair whips around as she turns on Marc. “Don’t you dare!”

Marc’s eyes are mischievous, and his hands come up in defense. “What’s the matter, Poot? Why you so grumpy?”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why not?” He smiles broadly. “I like it. I think it suits you, Poot.”

Meg storms forward angrily and jabs Marc with her finger. “Call me a whore, have at it, go back to being an asshole, but Poot is not an option.”

Marc smiles a smile I’ve never before seen him use in front of her, and pulls her quickly against his chest. He kisses the top of her head before she shoves him away. “We can be friends, Poot. I’m turning over a new leaf.”

“No!”

Luc’s eyes narrow because he hates not being in on the joke. “What’s a poot?”

“It’s me deciding to play nice,” Marc answers cryptically. “I won’t call her a whore again. I promise.” He smiles down at her angry face. “Truce… Poot?”

“No!”

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