I frowned in confusion. "We had wine?" My gaze flicked to the numerous empty wine bottles littering the coffee table. "Shit, we had wine."

"And beer, and tequila, and –" she slapped a hand over her mouth and took a moment before whimpering, "scotch."

"Jesus." I shuddered. "No goddamn wonder I feel like a marching band has taken up residency behind my eyeballs."

"I'm right there with you," she agreed glumly.

"Coach is gonna flip." I blew out a pained breath. "I missed this morning's practice."

"Can you turn it off?" Molly asked then, pointing to the vacuum. "I swear it's trying to kill me."

Chuckling, I switched off the vacuum. "You know, when you're this hungover, there really is only one cure."

"Yeah?" Crawling onto the couch, she grabbed a cushion and cradled it to her stomach. "Well, whatever it is, I want it." Shivering, she curled up in a tiny ball and winced. "Because I really think that I might be on the way out here, D."

Swiping a half bottle of vodka off the coffee table, I flopped onto the couch beside her and nudged her shoulder. "Bottom's up, Molls."

"Oh god, you were right yesterday," she grumbled, swiping the bottle out of my hand. "You do corrupt me." With a teasing lilt to her voice, Molly unscrewed the cap on the bottle and asked, "Are you sure this isn't your way of getting to sleep over again?"

Yes.

Forcing a smile, I pulled out my last blunt and grabbed a lighter.

I rarely drank, and I smoked even less, but the thought of going home and facing Wren had me clutching at straws.

I didn’t want to leave her.

This was the most at peace I had felt in a very long time.

30 Molly

I was drinking.

Again.

On a school night.

Again.

At least I didn’t feel like the walls were moving anymore… Well, the walls were definitely still moving, the floor had joined them by spinning, too, but I felt freaking fantastic.

With my iPod pumping out Bowling For Soup's Girl All the Bad Guys Want at full blast, I jumped up and down on my bed, bouncing along to the music with animated dance moves.

From his perch on my bedroom floor, Daryl watched my every move with an amused expression. His cheeks were flushed from the sheer volume of alcohol we had consumed, his eyes bloodshot from the weed, but he looked more at peace in this moment than I had seen in the past two years.

His mask was down, and I was looking at the real him tonight. The version of Daryl King that had always belonged to me.

When the song ended and was replaced with The Ballad of Chasey Lain by The Bloodhound Gang, I upped the ante, comically lip-syncing along to the music, pretending Daryl was the girl, Chasey, from the song.

Daryl's infectious laughter only encouraged my antics, and I pulled out the lamest dance moves that were far from ladylike. Any other girl my age would be mortified to dance like a dude in front of the quarterback of our school's varsity football team, but I was too drunk and having too much fun to care.