In the bathroom, I took the Valium out of my purse, shoved it into my dry mouth, and gagged it down. After peeing and cleaning myself up, I stumbled off into Roger’s kitchen and dialed Peter. The answering machine picked up. “Hey,” I whispered, “it’s me. If you can hear me, please pick up. Please Petey. I’m loaded and freaked out, I just need to hear your voice. Peter, please? Peter, I need you! I don’t even care if someone’s there, please just talk to me.” I started crying. “I miss you Pete, just pick up the phone.” I sobbed. “I’m going crazy. Peter? Can you come and get me? Please pick up!”

“Hey.”

Roger stood in the doorway, now wearing his glasses and a look of pity. If Roger felt sorry for me, I was bad off. I hung up the phone.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

I shook my head. I felt desperate and alone. Why had I gotten so high? Why couldn’t I have stopped at ten o’clock, eleven—left with everyone else? Why was I always the last one at the party?

“You want to just crash here?” he asked.

I nodded.

Roger went to his room and found me a T-shirt to sleep in. While I changed my clothes, he transformed the couch. Sheets, top and bottom, fresh pillowcase, a wool blanket. I didn’t deserve his kindness. I doubted I’d have done the same if the roles were reversed.

He handed me a glass of water. “If you need anything else just wake me up, okay? There’s beer in the fridge if you want.” He turned and went to his room.

I lay on top of the comforter, my heart slamming my chest. The Valium hadn’t made a dent. I had more at home, but I was too wasted to drive. I needed to sleep but felt like I was going to have a heart attack. I tried meditating to slow the rhythm but kept thinking about Peter. Fuck! Why had I left that message? What was I thinking? What was wrong with me? I checked the time: 5:00 a.m. I started bargaining with God:

Let me fall asleep and I’ll do better. I’ll start over. I won’t do coke. I’ll get my shit together.

Nicole had been right. I was a fuck up, a mess. At that moment I wished with all my being that I could talk to her. How long had it been? A year? No, closer to two. We’d had one awkward encounter at Greenblatt’s Deli when I was still with Peter. She’d said she was moving to Flagstaff, Arizona to be with Steffi, who was living in her last ex-husband’s guesthouse.

Light peeked around the edges of the curtains, followed by the unwelcome sound of birds chirping and early morning traffic.