Page 61 of Loathe at First Sight

I’m trying to be good here, but fuck.

After we finish the second game, Liz asks, “Who wants to do some shots?”

All of us politely decline because I can’t even remember the last time I did shots—probably because I blacked out afterward.

No thanks.

She goes to the bar, and the three of us all exchange a worried glance.

Dylan says, “My plan was to get out of here, but I don’t know that I feel comfortable leaving her here alone when she’s getting shitfaced.”

Knowing I will regret the next words that come out of my mouth, I say, “You go ahead. I planned on having one more beer anyway. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“You sure?”

Not at all.

“Yeah, go.”

When Liz returns from the bar, I see that she has two shots in her hands.

“I said I didn’t want one,” I tell her.

“Who said either of these were for you?”

Then, I watch her down them both, making a face after each one.

“How much have you had?” I ask her.

She starts to count on her fingers. What exactly is she counting? I’m not sure. And it doesn’t matter because she quickly gives up.

“Doesn’t matter,” she slurs. “Because I am feeling no pain.”

“Is that right?”

She moves toward me, practically pushing her chest into mine. “That’s right. I’m not even upset anymore about the fact that you didn’t come running this morning.”

“You were upset?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Her face contorts in disgust. “No! I just…I mean…I was just expecting you. That’s all. It was rude of you not to come.”

Before I can say anything more on the subject, she’s already moved on to something new. “I want to hear some music.”

“There’s music playing,” I tell her.

“Not this country garbage. Something with a beat.” She takes off toward the jukebox. I watch her fiddle with some cash for a minute before the machine finally accepts it.

A rap song starts playing through the speakers, and a collective groan fills the bar. Liz doesn’t even seem to notice.

On her way back to me, she stops behind the bar top and grabs a bottle of tequila. “It’s okay,” she tells the bartender. “My parents own the place.”

When she’s before me once again, she holds her head back, opens her mouth, and pours some of the liquid down her throat.

She’s going to be hurting tomorrow.

But tonight, she seems to be all about having fun.

“Give me a boost,” she says.

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