Page 60 of Something Real with the Sea Monster
I struggle to remember the details of what happened last night. I remember going out and being really angry. Then an image of me vomiting everywhere at the club makes me retch into the bowl again.
Oh god, was that me? I don’t even remember why I was so angry. I hope I didn’t spew on Jack. The mortification makes my stomach clench all over again.
“Tegan?”
I look around, and he’s standing in the doorway, a worried look on his face. “I said do you want to come?”
He hasn’t come to me or touched me. Not that I blame him. I’m a complete mess. Just then the smell of stale vomit hits me and I realize it’s coming from me. From my hair.
“I just need to take a shower.” Twisting, I switch the water on and start stripping, hurrying so he won’t leave me behind. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”
“OK.” Jack shuts the door, leaving me alone in the cold bathroom. I climb into the shower, stepping in while the water is still cool, ignoring the sting. It could be worse. My head isn’t throbbing. I wash myself quickly, then dress, pulling a hoodie over tights and a t-shirt and dragging my still damp hair up into a messy bun. I cram clothes and shoes into a bag I never fully unpacked and drag it out of my bedroom.
When I emerge into the kitchen, Jack looks up from his phone. “Do you want to eat breakfast first?”
My stomach rolls. I shake my head. “I’ll get something on the way.”
It’s silent for most of the drive. Jack doesn’t even stop at Kiama to pick up his truck, which is good. I doubt I’d be able to drive even if he did.
With each passing half hour, the light buzz of the remaining alcohol in my system subsides, overtaken by a temple-pounding headache that feels like it will split me in half. I slink lower in the passenger seat as the sun rises and the sky turns and clear blue.
I message Mia and Luke, but neither of them responds. My guilt forms a solid mass lodged low in my belly, and I can’t find the words to talk to Jack and ask him what happened and exactly how mad he is with me.
I hope Mia isn’t feeling too let down. I hate that I missed her calls when she needed me. Hate that I wasn’t there for her.And for what? For a night out I didn’t enjoy and am already regretting.
I open Instagram and instantly regret that too. Saskia’s reel showing a clip of me projectile vomiting everywhere has more likes and comments than all my content for the last month combined, and I can’t bring myself to look at what people have said. I can’t bring myself to open my messages either, or care about whether or not the others will want to talk to me ever again.
I definitely don’t want to see any of them.
I’m numb to all that because I can’t stop worrying I’ve fucked things up with my best friend and with Jack all in the space of a few rotten hours.
Jack pulls over at Bateman’s Bay and turns to me. “Are you going to eat something?”
I shake my head. “We can keep going.”
He sighs. “Tegan, what’s going on? You’re not talking to me. I don’t know where we stand. I’m worried about you.”
I swallow, forcing back the ache in my chest. “I don’t know. You’re not talking to me. Do you hate me?”
His brows knit into a frown. “No, I don’t hate you. You’re the one who told me to go home and leave you last night. You refused to let me shower you when we got home or help you. What happened?”
I look down at my phone in my lap, fidgeting with the phone holder in and out to avoid looking at him. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t want you to see me like that, though.”
There’s a pause. Every second I wait for his response is a second spent imagining what he’ll say and none of the things I imagine are good.
When he does speak, it still hits me like a sledgehammer. “I wish I hadn’t seen you like that, Tegan.”
I swallow thickly, unable to reply.
Jack surprises me by covering my hand with his. His palm is warm, and I look up to find him watching me, not with an expression of disgust or judgment, but with concern. “Tegan, I care about you. I hate watching you do that to yourself. I wish you wouldn’t.”
The words sting, but I can’t argue with him. Right now I wish I wouldn’t have drunk at all. I want to tell him that I don’t get like that often, but if I think back over the last few years, there are more times than I care to count when I did. “Yeah.”
I wait for him to tell me he can’t be mates with an alcoholic. That he’d be ashamed to have me in his life. It’s what I deserve.
He squeezes my hand. “Hey, we can get through it, though. If you want to. If you’re willing to try.”
“I—” He’d be willing to do that and stick with me? I was about to say I’m not sure I can. I can’t imagine going to rehab or AA or whatever it is you’re supposed to do to fix yourself. But Jack gives me an encouraging smile, and I can’t bear to let him down again. “I’ll try.”
