‘I’m driving’—if I’m sure I won’t be later hassled about driving them home.

‘I don’t like the taste’—never works.

‘I’m not really a drinker’—people see this as a fun challenge.

‘I am drinking!’—only works if I am holding something that looks like alcohol and runs a risk of me being exposed as a liar.

‘I don’t want to’—can lead to arguments or probing questions or ‘But why?’.

‘I had a bad experience once’—people want the story, they always want the story.

‘No thanks, I’m not feeling well’—leads to people not wanting to be near you in case you’re contagious.

‘I’m pacing myself’—no one respects someone pacing themselves.

‘I’m allergic to additives’—people start googling what drinks are available that you can have.

‘It’s against my beliefs’—then I either have to lie about being religious or create some kind of elaborate belief system that sits outside of religion.

‘I’m on a cleanse’—sadly it’s one of the most accepted excuses, although you need a detailed list of information about the cleanse because they always want to know what you are eating and drinking and more importantly not eating and not drinking and exactly how much weight you’ve lost and if it’s worth it and how long it takes and how fast they would lose that weight if they were to do this imaginary cleanse and suddenly you’re supporting someone else’s disordered eating.

I don’t drink because, well, the simplest explanation is, I don’t want to. Of course, it’s more complicated. It’s layers of complication. First, there’s Lauren. And Dad.

I have spent a lot of time googling ‘how to know if someone has a drinking problem’. Reading books, reading forums, reading life-advice columns. But when so many people around you binge-drink, it’s hard to know what the problem is—the person, or the small town, or the country, or the culture, or my age, or my personality, or my family, or my issues or a very specific combination of it all.

After a big night, Lauren will emerge like a little fawn, unsure on her legs, but smiling, doe-eyed, innocent. It’s all a funny story to her. Then I start to feel crazy. Was it funny? Am I remembering my dread, my jagged anxiety, my disgust all wrong? Everyone else loves this thing, everyone else does it, and I don’t, and I am the only one walking away with dark memories and trembling hands and a stomach that aches when I think someone I love is going out and might not be safe and in control. I must be the one in the wrong.