“I love you more than the best wave in the ocean.”

I reach for the bottle next to his alarm clock and gulp down more fire. I notice the time, written in big red numbers that glow in the dark of the room: 8:06 p.m. I am suspended in this minute, just for a moment—drunk girl’s prerogative—and I see them, I see my parents. I conjure them.

It is morning in Malaysia, and the sun is beating down, and Mom’s wearing that wide-brimmed hat Mae and I got for her, the one with the red bow that matches her swimsuit.

Wow, Mom says, way out there on her island in Malaysia. The current’s strong today. Look at how the water is pulling back into the ocean.

Dad lifts up his phone and takes a picture to show to his oceanographer friend. Then he points.

Look at the water breaking, way out there. He takes another picture. It is a wave and it is coming.

Micah whispers, I remembered a condom this time.

“Holy shit. Wake up, Nah. Baby, wake up.”

Micah is shaking me and something has died in my mouth and my head is full of shards of glass. Fuck. Why do I do this to myself?

“The universe is telling you something, Nah,” Mom is saying when we walk out of the clinic. I ask her what the hell the universe could possibly be telling me other than to practice safe fucking and she doesn’t even blink at my use of the word fucking. She just shrugs and says, “She speaks through the gut.” But I can’t think about my gut because it’s empty now and all I want to do is fill it with pills, real pills, and those bitches inside only gave me Tylenol. And I don’t ask Mom what she means by speak. What does that mean when you can’t hear the universe—or when it doesn’t speak to you at all?

When we get home, Mom grabs a bundle of sage and sits me down in front of her altar. On it is a picture of Amma, this lady famous for hugging who Mom says taught her how to love, and also a picture of Yoko, looking kick-ass in a bowler hat and shades. “Okay,” Mom says, lighting the sage, “I’m gonna smudge the shit out of you.”

I have promised I will do better. No more almost-failing my classes, no more being stoned and pregnant and generally useless. I told Mom I was doing better. I was. Technically, I was. I told her to go on this trip. I wanted her off my back. And how was I to know I was going to drink half a bottle of vodka last night? I didn’t mean it, didn’t plan it.

Fuck. Fuck me and fuck my life and I fucking hate myself so much.