Page 25 of Dash

But twenty agonising minutes later, my phone pings with just one word. I stare at the screen, trying to make it reveal what the fuck he means by it, but I’m more confused than ever as I read it over and over.

Dash:

Sleep.

SEVEN

DAYNA

I wakewith my brain trying to drill out of my eye socket. I didn’t think I drank that much last night, but I barely manage to pry open one lid before I’m hit with a kaleidoscope of pain.

I pull my pillow over my head, letting out an unholy sounding groan. I have tostopdoing this. I’m going to drink through my liver and my sanity before I reach twenty-five.

At least I woke up in my own bed.

That doesn’t always happen.

Why did I even pick up that horrible man?

Because you hate yourself and you’re trying to punish your existence with emotionally unavailable men who are only interested in fucking you.

I swing out of my bed, gripping the edge of the mattress like it can tether me to a different truth.

This self-destruction is going to end badly.

My phone buzzes. It’s a message from Katie, saying she’s on her way over. Balls. I forgot she was having coffee with me this morning.

I take the world’s quickest shower, washing the filth of last night off me. There’s not enough water on the planet to clean me, but I towel dry my hair as if I’m not a fucking disaster.

I’m just about dressed when she knocks on my door. I tug it open with a smile that does not reach any part of my fucking face other than my lips and of course, Katie sees right through my bullshit.

“Heavy night?” she asks.

I step back to let her in, patting my hair as if that’s the reason she thinks I look ruined. “You know me. A drink a day keeps the doctor away.”

Her frown holds a hint of amusement, and I walk into the kitchen to put the kettle on. There is not enough coffee in the world to fix my hangover headache, but I can’t function on a normal day without an unhealthy dose of caffeine, let alone when I feel like I left my stomach in the bottom of a glass.

“You know, binge drinking is not a lifestyle choice, Dayna.”

“It’s only binge drinking if you do it now and again.”

Katie leans against the counter, giving methatlook. The one she’s been giving me since we were running around the playground with missing teeth and pigtails. “Okay, let me rephrase—drinking yourself to death isn’t the vibe.”

“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just…” What am I doing? “Having fun.” I wince even as I say it.

It doesn’t feel enjoyable. It feels like punishment.

“Babe, you don’t have to lie to me. I’m not your mother. I’m not Ivy. I’m sure as fuck not your therapist.”

“I don’t have a therapist.”

“Maybe you should.”

I snort a laugh. “You first.”

“I’m not the one drinking myself into repressed men with the personality of a wet sponge.”

She’s not wrong, but it stings just a little to have laid out like that. “You don’t even like men.”

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