Page 59 of Powerless
She eventually gives me a flat smile while casting a furtive glance my way through the mirror, eyes lingering on my face that’s covered in what looks like drying white paint. It clings to my stubble and is cracking in spots.
It reminds me of myself in a way. A fragile shell. One little crack and the entire thing is liable to burst open.
“You okay?”
“Yup,” she says a little too brightly while drying her face. “Just realizing I should go to bed if I don’t want to feel like total shit tomorrow.”
When she leaves, I let out a heavy breath and drop my palms onto the counter before me.
I’m not sure what’s going on with us today, but we’re both going to feel like total shit tomorrow, regardless of alcohol intake.
Because Sloane is going to be hungover. And I’m going to be tired from staying up all night fighting off thoughts about all the filthy things I want to do to her and those soft, puffy lips.
17
Sloane
Sloane:Send help.
Summer:Help with what? Are you guys okay?
Sloane:I’m so hungover. I want to die.
Willa:Nice. Shame spiral. Did you bang him?
Sloane:No. We gave each other facials and passed out awkwardly.
Willa:High five. I love it when Cade gives me a facial.
Summer:Good god.
Sloane:That is . . . not what I meant.
Ireally nailed it when I said I was going to feel like total shit in the morning.
It’s like I had a premonition or something. Because my head is pounding, there’s a heavy weight that reminds me an awful lot of shame pressing down on my chest, and the silence in the truck is fuckingdeafening.
Jasper and I exchanged good mornings. He asked how my nose was, and I rolled my eyes at him. He’s acting like he hit me with a fastball, not lobbed a flimsy bottle of water at me that sort of rolled down my face.
Because yes, I remember everything about last night in excruciatingly clear detail. I was just drunk enough to not give a fuck about anything, but not drunk enough to forget it.
Most times I would say getting hammered and not blacking out was a win. But I’d have happily blacked last night out. It would have prevented me from running that tape in my head on repeat.
The sky above us is dark gray, and snow falls in big fat flakes, landing in loud wet slaps against the windshield. The windshield where we both keep our gazes fixed.
Because shit is awkward this morning and it’s probably because I went all green-eyed on fans of his and then dragged him back to our hotel room where I asked if he’d sign my melons and give me a facial.
What can I say? We all have our breaking points, and it would seem I’ve hit mine.
I glance over at the speedometer, and we’re going a good chunk below the speed limit.
You live near the mountains long enough, and you know what heavy snowfall looks like before it hits. And this is that.
I know it. And Jasper knows it.
And I know Jasper well enough to know that inside his head right now, he’s agonizing over our safety. That’s his default mode.
“You must think I’m an idiot,” is how I open our conversation.
