Eighteen.

Chapter 2

Luke Hemming's eighteenth birthday had been... memorable. He assumed.

A product of teenage stereotypes, Luke had spent his eighteenth birthday getting- for the first time legally- completely trashed.

It wasn't that the boy was stupid. He had just mindlessly done what had been expected from him. If they expect a drunk tosser, he'd mused days beforehand, I can be a drunk tosser.

A popular boy in Sydney, Luke's friends had accompanied him on the town, and helped fill in some of the blanks from the night.

It had started pretty innocently, really. A meal with his family. His favourite restaurant, and a beer with his steak dinner.

Around nine, he headed out with his friends. And the fun begins! his memory echoes his shout.

Fuzzy places, with fuzzy people. Small, clear memories- shots, beers, drinking games.

Then, nothing.

Friends had given him the details they could remember- if all was right, Luke had danced with at least thirty-six girls, not a single one of whom he remembered.

God, he hated getting wasted.

The day after Luke Hemming's eighteenth birthday, he woke up in a friend's house and sighed in relief.

He knew where he was, at least.

The pounding in his head intensified as he stood up, his stomach reeling. He felt the immediate urge to retch. Swallowing down the bile, he began the fruitless search for orange juice and chocolate- his go-to hangover cure.

When nothing could be found in the empty fridge, Luke sent his friend a text to thank him for the sofa he'd slept on, and let himself out.

The morning air cooled his flushed face, and allowed his throbbing head to ebb somewhat. The streets were deserted, and Luke silently thanked the world for this. He checked the time on his phone, yawning slightly. 

09:46, the clock read clearly, and Luke groaned aloud. He hated being awake early, but never could manage to sleep through a hangover. 

He made his way to the bakery at the end of his street and got himself a coffee and a slice of chocolate cake, ignoring the server's attempts to flirt with him- it was too early in the morning to be hit on.

Flashbacks started to hit him as he walked down the narrow streets, avoiding all crowded pathways, coffee in hand.

"Hey there," the blonde smirked, her too-short dress riding up as she perched delicately on the barstool beside him.

Lost in a drunken stupor, Luke smiled in her vague direction, not even bothering to reply.

"Isabelle," the girl introduced herself. She had to be younger- maybe sixteen? But how had she even gotten into the bar?

"Luke," he replied, his words slurring slightly, though still comprehensible. If there was one thing Luke could do, it was sound less drunk than he actually was.

The music in the background blared, and Luke stood up, shakily making his way to the dance floor. He found that, the faster he moved, the easier moving was. Isabelle followed, overconfident for her age. 

Maybe she's older, Luke thought, his brow creasing. No teenager could have that much confidence.

She was shouting to him over the music, and Luke realised that he should probably answer, but he just focused on staying upright. He swayed uncertainly, his fist hitting the air in a dance attempt.

Isabelle laughed, obviously not that concerned with conversation. She began to lean in and--

Luke shivered involuntarily, shutting his eyes to rid himself of the mental images.

Maybe remembering it wasn't that important.

He took an impatient glug of coffee as he found the alleyway that brought him right into his neighbourhood.

Walking in his front door, his mom greeted him with a grimace. "Luke, did you have to stay out all night and not call?" she demanded.

Luke sighed and tried to push past her, to no avail.

"Answer me, Luke. You may be eighteen now, but this is my house, and you are my son."

Luke looked straight at her for the first time in days. "I'm eighteen, mom. Who cares where I live? Kick me out. Good luck controlling me then."

His mother stood in shock as Luke slid past her and up the stairs. He'd apologise later, he knew, once he was feeling more human.

Showering quickly, he headed into his room, where he had a single other flashback.

"You only turn eighteen once!" his friend laughed, shoving a brightly coloured drink at him. Luke downed it in one.

"You only turn eighteen once," Luke muttered under his breath as he slid under the covers. "And thank God for that."