Page 41 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
Until it isn’t.
“So where was your brother in all of this?” he asks.
I blink, confused. “My brother?”
He nods toward the album, seemingly confused by my confusion. “He’s the eldest in the family, right? Shouldn’t he have . . . I don’t know, stepped in?”
“No. No, but it’s not his fault,” I add quickly, catching the faint furrow between his brows.Of course not. It’s allyourfault, a cool, familiar voice whispers in my head.You were the one who ruined everything.“He took it harder than I did. I remember that he used to be pretty well-behaved, but after our dad left, he kind of just . . . gave up. He started ditching his classes and handing in his homework late and getting into trouble at school. Honestly the only thing he still seemed interested in was basketball—without that, I’m not sure if he’d have gotten into college.”
Julius absorbs this without any outward emotion, but he hasn’t looked away the entire time.
“Sorry,” I mumble, stepping past him and shoving the album into the cabinet. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, why I’m suddenly spilling out my guts toJulius.
“What are you apologizing for?” he asks.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I say, then catch myself. A snort lurches out of me, and the ice inside my chest thaws slightly. “Okay, no, actually, I take it back—I’m not sorry. At all. About anything.”
“You certainly didn’t seem sorry about kicking me.”
I tense, but when I look up, the corner of his mouth is curved up. Like we’re sharing an inside joke. Before I can relax, he slides one foot closer, and the air between us suddenly turns molten.
“You also didn’t seem too sorry about . . .” He trails off on purpose, but his eyes flicker down to my lips. Linger there, for a beat too long.
This is something else I know I’ll always remember, no matter how hard I try to scrub it from my memory, to pretend otherwise.
That I had kissed Julius Gong.
That I’d kissed him, and wanted it.
The heat in the air spreads through my veins, and I twist away, searching for a distraction. From him. From this whole night. From the stuffy feeling in my chest, the crushing weight of everyone’s disapproval, the consequences of the party. Easily—almost too easily—I find it. There’s a bottle of beer left on the desk. Unopened. Untouched. My fingers twitch toward it.
Could I?
It’s astonishing that I’m even contemplating it. It would be impulsive, foolish, completely unlike me. But how many impulsive things have I done tonight? Would another really make any difference?
There’s a false assumption people tend to make about me: They believe that all I care about is being the best. That the closer I am to the top, the happier I am. That if it comes down to it, a 30 percent is better than a zero; that being mediocre is at least better than beingbad. But I swing between extremes. If I can’t be the best, I would rather be the best at being the worst. If I’m going to fail, I would rather fail at it thoroughly than do a job halfway.
And if I’m going to self-destruct, then why stop at kissing the enemy?
“You don’t want to drink that,” Julius says, his voice slicing through my thoughts. He’s studying me, his head tilted to the side like a bird of prey. He sounds so confident. Like he knows better. Like he always knows better.
It’s infuriating—and it’s exactly what helps me make up my mind.
I uncap the bottle, holding his gaze the whole time in challenge, and take a long, deliberate swig. The liquid burns my mouth, so much stronger than I’d been prepared for. It tastes like fire. Rushes straight to my head.
I cough, spluttering, but I keep going.
The first few mouthfuls are disgusting. Bitter and biting, like medicine but heavier, with an unpleasant aftertaste. I can’t believe this is what adults make a big fuss about. I can’t believe people pay real money just to endure this. But then my body starts to warm up from within, and my head starts to spin. Normally I would hate it: the loss of control, the disorientation. But tonight it smooths out the sharp edges, dials down the background noise to a lovely hum, numbs the pang in my chest.
The next few mouthfuls are much easier to swallow. It still doesn’t taste very good, but I kind of like the way it scorches my throat.
I drink quickly, encouraged by Julius’s muted surprise.That should shut him up, I think to myself. I’ve almost finished the entire bottle when I twirl it around to check the label, and realize that it isn’t beer after all. It’s bourbon.
“Oh,” I say, setting the bottle down. “Oh. Crap.”
No wonder I’m so dizzy.
It occurs to me that I should be more concerned. That this is very, very,verybad. But the panic stays on the sidelines, like a spider in a neighboring room: not so close as to necessitate a response just yet. If anything, I feel perfectly fine.
