Page 57 of Bring You Back

I pour two little blue pills into my mouth and dry swallow. It’s useless to ignore them. They’re a crutch I still need.

Grumbles jumps onto the bed and I join her, tucking myself in, the pillow cool against my cheek. I rock under the covers, pinching my scar, waiting for sleep.

14

Terrible Hangovers

Julian

A bird squawks me awake. I see it fly over my head right as I open my eyes before immediately shutting them against the sun glaring down on me. I groan through a feeling I haven’t felt in months—the anger churning in my stomach replaced by a strong nausea, a spinning behind my lids. I rack my brain, remembering I stumbled away from the dunes at some point last night to land … on something hard.

I assess the rest. My elbows dig into an open space between slats. Waves lap all around and under me.

I’m on the pier.

I pry my eyes open to a squint, widening them little by little until I’m staring at a cluster of clouds, away from the worst of the sun. In school, we learned about the types of clouds. I could look up and tag them with a name in seconds. The names evade me, though, as I try to place what I’m seeing, until I realize I’m just distracting myself from the motions of a post-alcohol binge, and the fact that the pier is where my drunken mind chose to land.

This is where it happened. This is the spot where I almost kissed Camille.

Then she left, and I haven’t set foot on these planks since.

I push to sitting with another groan at the drum beat in my head, every movement sending a pulsating throb through my temples. It feels like hands are squeezing the sides of my skull.

Already needing a break, I slouch in my new position and just breathe. I crack my neck, turn my head toward the beach with a longing look at the waves curling behind me. This is the second time I’ve woken up too late to ride them. The second time I’ve woken up with the sun too bright.

My body hates me right now. I couldn’t even ride them if I wanted to.

What is routine? What is normalcy?

Last night was worth it, I decide. Even though my body tells a different story. I don’t remember a lot after downing that last beer, but that’s the point. Forgetting is nice. So I’ll call this a win.

I push to standing, my head screaming in protest. What the fuck. I’m young. This should be easy. Then again, I’ve never taken too well to hangovers. Neither has my dad—on the rare occasion he’d drink more than one glass ofsomethingwith Mom. I must’ve inherited it from him.

Oh, wait. I didn’t inherit shit from Brent Fowler. I’ve seen my mother go through a couple terrible hangovers in my day. This is all her genes.

I need to take a piss. I need a meal with a side of water, amnesia, and—Banks.

I’m trudging to the entrance when I see him sprawled out, face down, his upper half on the pier, his lower half on the sand. He must’ve followed me out here and didn’t quite make it.

I laugh as I make the last of the walk, then give him a light kick to the side. “Yo. Get up.”

He grunts and waves me off. “Fuck off, Dad.”

I kick him again. “Seriously, man. Get up.”

He grunts louder and yells, “No!” But he lifts himself up and flops to his back, staring up at me with wide eyes. The guy doesn’t even have to squint, and he’ll stand up just fine. Hangovers are trendy. Second nature for him.

He points at me. “You look nothing like my dad.”

“Good to know,” I say. “Come on. We’re getting breakfast.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Banks croons as he hops to his feet, and I point at him this time, over my shoulder as I walk as far away from that as possible.

“Don’t call me that again.”

He laughs at my back. “Dude, you like it.”

We end up at A Flying Grit, both of us popping into the bathroom for a quick piss, me shoving Banks into a stall so I can take a urinal, having remembered a time in school when he tried to sneak a peek at my junk—I was just curious!—then meeting back up at a booth.

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