Page 2 of 72 Hours of You

I really need to get out of here. I pull out my phone and send my sister a text.

ME:I need to go

JULES:Be back in 10!!!!

ME:I mean it. I need to go. Don’t spend 20 mins picking out a candy bar. Just get the ducking Butterfinger

ME:Ducking

ME:Ducking

ME:FUCKING

JULES:10 mins I swear!! Checking out now. I picked a butterfinger how did you know?????

ME:COME BACK!!!

Ten minutes, which could mean twenty for Jules. That’s cutting it close to Zero Hour. Way closer than I ever let myself get. I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can still see the glow of the pink light behind my eyelids. There’s no escape.

I need a drink. Actually, I need several. “I changed my mind,” I say, tugging on Noah’s thick lacrosse-player arm. “Let’s play a game.”

“Yes!” he whoops.

“Not cornhole,” I say, pulling him with me to the kitchen. The tile is sticky with spilled drinks and the counter is cluttered with overturned cups and wounded soldiers.

“I’m down to play whatever,” Noah says, barely hiding his excitement.

“Good,” I say. “Because this game is very complicated. It’s called Let’s Get Shitfaced.”

His golden eyes light up. “How do you play?”

I grab two cups of lukewarm jungle juice from the counter and push one into his hand. “Here. Let’s get shitfaced.”

“All right, Syd!” Noah says, his smile practically breaking his face in two, like he can’t believe his luck. He tips his drink back and starts gulping.

I bring mine to my lips, fully planning to down the entire thing as fast as possible, but the sharp burn of bottom-shelf alcohol in my nose stops me. I haven’t had a drink in eleven months. Not since … Well. Not in eleven months. Last time I got hammered, it was like being trapped in one of those Salvador Dalí melting hellscapes—the pink numbers drooping, sliding into eternity, the light nearly blinding my eyes, and the girl’s face so utterly—

“Are you okay?” Noah asks. “You’re breathing kinda weird.”

“Am I?” My heart is racing, the images from last year fighting to break free of the mental cage I hold them in. In and out, in and out, I remind myself. Just slow down. But I can’t. The air is coming and going into my lungs so fast that it feels like I’m not breathing at all. Like there is no air. Like I might die.

I put a hand over my heart. My shirt is clammy and damp. The pink light gets brighter. Liam is coming into the kitchen. Shit. Shit shit shit. “Here,” I say, shoving my drink at Noah. “I need some air.”

“Do you want me to come wi—”

I don’t stick around to hear the end of that question. Because the answer is no. The answer is always, always no. And it should’ve been no when Jules asked—demanded—that I come out tonight. God, what was I thinking? I should’ve known better.

I fight my way through my classmates, swimming against a rip current of sweaty bodies, pushing past people dancing and kissing and touching boobs and butts they’re pretending not to touch. A couple is tangled up in each other on the love seat, their limbs so knotted they look like one being. I gasp for air, shoving between two girls locked together on the dance floor. I bump into Ethan, who says something about the beer pong game, but I can’t understand him. It’s like he’s underwater too. The walls are closing in and it’s so hot, and so humid. And there’s no air. No air at all. I need to get to the door.

My hand reaches the doorknob. I yank it open and a blast of cool air hits my face. I slam the door shut behind me, the pulsing sound of music and laughter finally muffled.

Outside, in the dark under the broken porch light, I can breathe.

All I have to do is stay out here. Forget what’s going on inside. Forget what’s going to happen in—I check my Apple Watch—fifty-two minutes. Forget it all.

“Why does it have to be Liam?” I mumble to myself. He’s never done anything wrong. Like, never. A couple weeks ago, in English, I was talking about the meaning of the word gentle in that famous Dylan Thomas poem and Jordan Reaty cut me off mid-sentence. Without missing a beat, Liam said, Sorry, what were you saying, Sydney? And he did it without making a big thing about it or posing as the feminist hero guy or whatever. He just said it and moved on. Like, an actual nice guy. There aren’t that many around, and after tonight, there’s going to be one less.

For just a flash of a second, I consider turning around, swimming back upstream through those sticky bodies, and grabbing Liam and hugging him. But I don’t do that. We’re barely friends, and I don’t want to make things weird for him in his last hour. Last minutes. God, where is Jules?