Page 28 of Becoming Us
I spun around. “Nothing, Dad.”
Maybe he wasn’t mad. Maybe. But he always took her side.
This is why nobody in this house can stand you.
“You’re upset.”
“We fought. It was my fault. I said sorry, okay? I just need to go. I need air or something. Just—please. Let me leave.”
He studied my face, and I begged myself not to cry. One more second and I would. If he didn’t let me go, I would fall apart right here.
His hand loosened.
I didn’t wait. Just pulled the door open and ran.
The place was packed and way too hot. Smoke hung in the air, making everything look foggy and blurry. Not that it wasn’t already.
I’d run to Holly’s, and from there, we’d ended up at some friend’s house for a party. It was PG—just beer and not much else. Luckily, I always had something to smoke on hand.
River had texted, and an hour later, here we were. Drunk. High. Numb.
Couldn’t forget numb. That was the whole point.
“This is such a bad idea. It’s like the epitome of bad ideas. Can we go home?” Holly’s nostrils flared as she glanced around.
People were scattered across couches, others pressed against walls, making out or moving lazily to the music. The air felt heavier here, thicker somehow—the kind of place you went when you wanted to forget you existed.
“Just for a little while. Let me say hi.”
We wandered through the crowd, passing people doing shots, smoking. I pressed my palm to the wall, steadying myself, feeling the ridges of the wallpaper scratch against my skin.
After five minutes, I finally spotted him in the kitchen. Our eyes met, and his grin widened.
“Well, if it isn’t Seattle’s new hotshot,” River said, waving me over.
A couple of guys from today were there, along with some girls I recognized from other shoots. We said hi, and before I could finish, River tugged me back by the shoulder, making me stumble and lean against his chest.
He was all skin and bones—more uncomfortable than not—but he handed me a shot, and that made it better.
Holly hovered nearby, trying to catch my eye. I avoided hers.
“I saw you in the Dion Marchetti shoot, right?” one of the girls asked.
River threw his arm around my shoulders in a half-hug. The stench of alcohol clung to him, barely masked by his cologne, which he’d apparently bathed in.
“Yeah. With Chuckles, the photographer,” I said, and they all cackled.
“Oh my god, I know! He’s the absolute worst,” the girl replied, still laughing.
“And handsy too. Ugh, I hate that,” another added.
“Nothing worse than handsy photographers,” River said. His voice rumbled against my back, and I shifted on my feet.
I glanced up. Holly’s eyes were locked on us, her expression tight.
“Handsy assholes are the worst,” she said, staring River down.
He laughed. “Do you work too? Haven’t seen you around.”
