In Ruins (16 page)

Present Day

I check myself out in the mirror and sigh. I'm casual enough in jeans and an emerald blouse that brings out my eyes, but I went all out on my hair and makeup. I didn't do it for Ben; I did it for myself. We're having dinner tonight with Devin and Max, and as much as I like Ben as a friend, Devin's the reason I agreed to this evening out.

I made her up first, because she's desperate to impress Max tonight, though she could have probably done so in sweats and a fresh face for how into her the guy seems. Ever since their argument he's been playing contrite and attentive, via text anyway. But they haven't gotten together since, and she wants to knock his socks off…or his underwear.

But after finishing Devin's makeup, I decided that I, too, deserve to feel good about myself. I'm not actually wearing that much, but I've used a new technique that plays up my lashes and uses less liner and I'm liking the look. But now I worry Ben will think it's all for him.

Devin slaps my denim-clad ass. “Sexy mama,” she teases. She looks in the mirror one last time and runs her fingers through her straight, glossy hair. “You almost look as good as me.”

I laugh. “Well, that's the goal, right? We wouldn't want Max to forget where he's supposed to look,” I joke.

“Pshh. I'm not worried,” she says breezily. And she shouldn't be. She's freaking gorgeous. And she knows it.

Max is driving tonight and his truck is already waiting at the entrance of the courtyard as we leave Stuyvesant. He and Ben lean against the car, chatting. We all exchange kisses on the cheek, and Max holds the passenger door open for Devin.

I climb into the back with Ben and we head to Sweeney's Bar and Grill. Dinner is equally comfortable and not. Ben and I have fallen into an easy friendship, but Devin and Max's flirtations add an extra layer of pressure to the whole situation. I try to ignore it, and Ben seems to be doing the same, but then Max will whisper something to Devin, she'll giggle, and Ben and I will exchange a glance. Mine is only meant to silently comment on our friends' chemistry, but I wonder if there's more behind Ben's. I get the feeling his gaze lingers after I pull mine away.

So I drink.

I'm not driving, and I'm due a fun night out, so there's no reason not to. When Devin orders shots of tequila for us all—excluding Max—I down mine hastily. I take another shortly after, and then switch to beer. It does the trick. Suddenly my veins buzz with the light weight of alcohol, and my own laughter reverberates in my ears, slow and easy. Ben's smile is wide and far too perfect. Symmetrical. Not like Tucker's lopsided, roguish grin.

Don't think about him
.

I shake him from my thoughts. Or try to. So when Ben asks me to dance, and I look around to find Max and Devin already going wild on the dance floor, I agree.

The music is loud and fast, and we join our friends and move drunkenly to the eighties music blaring through the bar. There is nothing romantic about it, which makes me even more comfortable—or maybe that's the alcohol.

I'm dehydrated by the time we sit down, and I chug ice water while Ben laughs at me and tells me to slow down.

But my head starts aching. It happens every time I drink hard liquor, though I'd hoped having only two shots would be okay.

I don't say anything, though. Max's arm is wound intently around Devin's shoulders, and he murmurs softly to her—words I can't hear—and I don't want to cut short her night. Her smile is secretive and bright, and I know the evening is progressing just how she planned.

But the pounding in my head grows stronger, and I find myself counting down the minutes until we leave. Ben eyes me curiously, but it isn't until we've paid the bill and are walking back to Max's car that he asks if I'm okay.

“Fine,” I lie.

“You guys want to come chill at the house?” Max asks.

“Sure,” Devin says.

Ben looks at me.

“Um, actually, my head hurts pretty bad,” I admit. “Maybe we should just go back to the dorm.”

Devin gives me a
don't do this to me
look, and I feel guilty. She's been looking forward to spending time with Max since their last outing ended in a dramatic failure.

But my temples twinge with pain and I wince.

Ben's arm comes around my waist and I realize I almost stumbled, reminding me that I am also still pretty drunk. “I can give you something for your headache at the house if you want.”

I look at Devin's pleading gaze, then back to Ben, who looks sincere and concerned.

“Up to you.” He shrugs.

I sigh. “Okay. Just for a little, though.” Just long enough for Devin to make out with Max so she can call the evening a win. Hopefully a couple of aspirin will do the trick.

Fifteen minutes later we're walking into the lax house. The living room is empty, many of the guys having gone home for break, and I wonder if Tucker is still here. I don't know if I hope he is or isn't. The more time we spend together working on our group project, the more we seem to get along, but as much as I find myself basking in his company, it doesn't actually ease my heartache. It's jarring to miss someone when he's right beside you, and the thought of us both spending Thanksgiving at the Caplans' makes me consider canceling for the hundredth time since I accepted the invitation. But I don't. Because Billy deserves to experience a traditional family holiday for once, even if it isn't with our actual family.

Devin and I sit and Ben disappears down the hall to his bedroom to get me aspirin. I down them greedily, eager for the pounding waves in my head to dissipate. We sit and talk, joined briefly by Ricky, and it isn't long before my headache begins to clear. I'm still kind of drunk, but my head does feel much better.

Actually all of me feels better. Including my mood.

We're not talking about anything important, but I can't stop chatting. I watch Max make subtle moves on Devin, and the two of them try to pretend like they're not waiting for an excuse to make an exit to his bedroom.

It makes me extremely happy for some reason. Thrilled even. Devin is a cool girl, but the truth is, the more we've gotten to know each other, the more I've realized we're not likely to become especially close. I enjoy her company, but our friendship is the kind that comfortably skims the surface, and I suspect if it ventured too far into the deep, it would probably founder.

“Headache gone?” Ben smirks.

I smile. “Yes. That was some good aspirin you gave me. Thanks!”

Now that I'm feeling better, the warm glow of alcohol runs lazily through me, easing my earlier concerns. Easing all of my concerns, actually.

Ben bristles a little, and I wonder if he's not as relaxed. If perhaps he's still thinking about moving our friendship into something else. Something decidedly physical.

But right now, I don't care. I'm just not interested. I wish I was. I wish I was ready to move on from Tucker with someone new. And Ben is certainly a prime candidate if there ever was one. Gorgeous and sweet, thoughtful, and obviously interested. But he isn't the one thing I want. The one thing I've always wanted.

Tucker.

I feel strange. Fuzzy. My limbs feel heavy—
that'll be the alcohol
—and my euphoric mood is starting to succumb to the weight of reality. I wonder if my buzz is beginning to shift into the hangover phase. Though it's a little soon for that, surely. But I'm definitely feeling a bit woozy. My stomach rolls with nausea, and my head doesn't so much spin as it blinks, moving like a strobe light, skipping about the room.

My eyes land on the cable box by the far wall, and I'm surprised by how much time has passed. It's nearly two in the morning.

I peek over at the loveseat where Max and Devin were earlier, and realize they did, in fact, disappear into his bedroom. But I've no clue how long they've been gone. It could have been hours.

I don't want to interrupt her, but I need to get back to the dorm. It's late, and even though it's now been a couple of hours since my last drink, I'm feeling too out of it in a way that's remarkably unfamiliar. Like a curious combination of physical exhaustion and a wakeful dream.

I lean back on the sofa and let my head fall onto the headrest to try and regain my senses. My eyelids drop heavily, slamming me into blackness, but also not. Thoughts still swirl, but they take me far from where I know I'm meant to be—the lax house, with…Ben?

But I'm not thinking about him anymore. I'm thinking about who I'm always thinking about, whether in the forefront of my mind or buried in the deepest crevices of my soul.

Tucker is talking to me. But I force my eyes open and, of course, he isn't there. It's Ben. Good old Ben. Mouth downturned in a frown of concern, full brow furrowed, eyes still shining with an alcohol-induced haze of his own. But, unlike me, he seems to have retained most of his awareness.

I don't even know when he sat next to me on the couch. Or how the minutes on the cable box have managed to jump a full half hour in the two minutes I had my eyes closed.

He's asking if I'm okay. If I need anything.

I shake my head.

Or I mean to. My neck barely moves. So I do it again with rallied focus and effort, and this time, instead of its intended shake, it kind of rolls side to side. I feel far too warm. Almost feverish. I think I hear the mumble of my own words voicing this, or maybe it's just the echo of my thoughts.

My eyes open again. Ben has magically procured a cold glass of water, and I startle as he holds it to my lips and asks me to drink.
When did he get that?

My chest rises and falls too slowly, my breaths too shallow to give my lungs any real satisfaction. It's scary. I just want to breathe normally.

“Carl, you need to lie down. You can stay over,” Ben says.

Stay over? Where? Where are we?
Why am I with Ben again?

He's pulling me up, but my legs feel bizarrely like liquid.

Ow
.

“Steady, Carl,” Ben says when the wall bumps into my hip.
Stupid wall.

He leads me past the kitchen and then suddenly we're in the hall that leads to the first-floor bedrooms. I stop walking—
stumbling
.

“You need to sleep, Carl. You'll feel better in a couple hours. I'll drive you back to your dorm in the morning.”

I think I shake my head, but I don't know. I'm so damn tired. My eyes won't stay open for more than a few seconds at a time. I must be getting sick. I know I drank a bunch earlier, but this is something else; I must have caught some kind of bug or something.

But even in the haze of drink or illness or both, I know I can't let Ben take me to his bedroom. I think he's a good guy, but I don't know him well enough to actually trust him.

I'm too fucked up right now. I can't make sense of anything, but rising just above the clouds are giant, gleaming red flags.

“No,” I mumble. I want to explain myself. To say I want to go home.

Not home. To my dorm.

Or home. I don't know.

I don't know fucking anything right now. I can't think straight, but I can feel.

And I feel fear.

I twist out of his steadying hold and then I'm falling. But his arms catch me and start pulling me again in the direction he wants me. His bedroom.

“
N-no.
”

“It's okay. You just need to lie down. I'll keep an eye on you, you'll be fine.”

Yes.
Lie down
. That's what I need.

My feet move, somehow, but then I'm looking down the hall, past what I recognize as the slightly open door to Tucker's room, and toward an unfamiliar bedroom, and I remember—I don't want to go in there.

I pull away and manage several steps back before I trip. I barely catch myself on the wall, and I crush my eyes closed to block out the glaring lights that suddenly burst from overhead. Ben's large hands close firmly around my shoulders, and dread knots in my stomach. Because I need help. Everything is fucked up, and I can't even walk straight. I need him for balance, but at the same time, he is what I'm afraid of. Him, and this feeling of being out of control of my body.

I am helpless, and it's a new feeling for me, one I loathe with every cell in my compromised body. One that echoes of a time when I was just a little girl, gripping my father's legs as he's stolen from me, just as surely and desperately as I now grip this damned wall, which, for a stationary object, is doing a damn good job of evading my hold. But even through the fog, I have a tiny out-of-body vantage of perspective—as if through a kaleidoscope—observing the cliché of the drunk college freshman, helpless and being led to the bedroom of a boy she does not want to go to bed with.

The lights assault my head even through my shuttered lids, and Ben's incessant murmuring booms in my temples, and then, a lion prowls onto the scene, roaring wildly.

Tucker
.

Either I'm imagining him, or he's here, but I don't open my eyes to check. Because if it's only my imagination, then that's where I want to live. Because everything spins and blurs now, and I can do absolutely nothing to help myself other than cling to the corner where the wall of the hallway meets that of the kitchen, my nails digging so fiercely they must chip the paint.

“'The fuck is
this
?” Tucker's volume makes me wince, but the sound of his voice, even in obvious rage, is a quilt of comfort. It is safety and refuge and it helps me suck in deeper breaths.

More murmuring from Ben. I make out words like “fucked up” and “bed.”

“You've lost your damn mind if you think you're taking her to your fucking bedroom,” Tucker seethes.

The floor tilts beneath my feet as I'm ripped from Ben's grip. My eyes squint open but process very little. All I hear is Tucker's fury at Ben and his whispered words of comfort to me, and I let him tuck me into his strength, and silently beg for his mercy.