Campus King | 18+

Chapter Forty

"Let's settle this like real men — Rock, Paper, Scissors!" Tristan slurred, pointing an unsteady finger directly at the colossal figure, who, as I'd come to find out, was named Adam.

Over the course of the night, the two of them had formed an unlikely friendship, forged through countless rounds of drinking games and challenging each other to all kinds of ridiculous challenges. Despite both drowning in alcohol, Adam's size granted him a tad more semblance of sobriety, therefore rendering him a lot more composed than Tristan — who was doing a remarkable Jack Sparrow impression as he staggered and swayed where he stood.

I'd abandoned any hope of reining him in ages ago. I don't know why I even tried in the first place. Making Tristan do something he didn't want to do was fucking impossible.

And he was an escape artist. When I turned my attention away from him for even a second, he'd vanish. The last time he'd disappeared, I'd found him perched on Adam's shoulders, talking in a terrible French accent while trying to control him like the rat from Ratatouille. Their laughter echoed as if they'd stumbled upon the greatest joke ever. It was... quite a sight.

Bailey wasn't any better. It took ten minutes of gentle convincing to get her to release her grip on the grass because she was convinced she might be thrown off the Earth due to its rapid spinning. Then, I had to intervene when she started undressing because, according to her, it was "too hot". She was currently passed out in her tent, cuddling an empty bottle of tequila.

It was hard to find a sober person at the festival. Since it was the last day, and creeping towards midnight, folks were way past tipsy and gearing up to make some seriously bad choices. It wasn't hard to find people either dancing, tripping out, fucking, or passed out. I was one of the few who managed to stay sober. Sure, I'd had a drink or two, but I figured it was smarter to keep a clear head when everyone else was losing theirs.

I came across this girl who'd drowned herself in way too many vodka cranberries and ended up having to stick two fingers down her throat to get her to throw up. And then I made sure she drank some water and ate a few bites of a hotdog. Tate was a lot less patient than I was — when some guy thought it was a brilliant idea to down an entire bottle of cheap whisky, nearly putting himself in a coma, Tate landed one solid punch to the guy's stomach. He proceeded to projectile vomit all over a group of dancing girls. The aftermath triggered a chain reaction, and now, that area was a no-go zone. The lingering stench was enough to keep people away.

Which led me to the present — fatigue and irritation clung to me like a second skin. And I really wanted a proper shower. The camping-style portable one we were using was nothing more than a glorified drizzle, and the cold water made things worse.

Not to mention, my mental state mirrored my physical exhaustion, and I just wanted to go home, curl up in my bed, and talk to no one. Maybe then, I could gather my thoughts, carve out a moment to simply breathe. The emotional rollercoaster and the unrelenting demands of this weekend were draining me and I felt close to empty. It felt like I was emotionally overwhelmed and I desperately needed some peace and quiet before I inevitably fell off that cliff. I didn't know where I'd land if that happened.