Slow It Down

Part 2 •REWRITTEN•

I gasp, jerking away from the sudden coldness and sticky feeling of the liquid seeping into my top.

Nate's face falls. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! Let me grab some napkins—"

He turns to leave in a panic, but I reach out, grabbing his wrist to stop him. "It's fine," I assure him, offering a small smile. "I'll just go to the bathroom. Don't worry about it. Maybe I'll see you around, Nate."

He hesitates before nodding. "Yeah, definitely."

I turn back to Natalie, who finally stops dancing long enough to take my drink.

"Do you want me to come with you?" she asks, still swaying lightly.

I shake my head. "I got it. I'll text you when I'm done."

She nods, already swaying to the beat again and slipping back into the rhythm of the music.

With a sigh, I weave through the party and start making my way toward the kitchen first, my steps not as steady as before.

The first bathroom I find is occupied, so I make my way upstairs, my hand gripping the railing a little tighter than necessary. My head is fuzzy, my balance slightly off, and everything around me feels softer, dreamlike.

The farther I move from the party, the heavier the air feels. The music still throbs through the walls, but up here, it's muffled—like the house is holding its breath. The hallway is dim, lit only by the soft glow of golden sconces lining the walls and the changing colors of the lights from downstairs, casting long shadows that sway as bodies move through them.

A couple leans against the wall near the staircase, completely wrapped up in each other, the guy's hands gripping the girl's waist as she giggles into his mouth. I look away, my face instantly heating, but as I take another step, I nearly stumble into another couple who seem to have completely forgotten they're in public. The girl's back is pressed against a closed door, her hands tugging at the guy's shirt, his mouth trailing along her neck.

I hurry past them, trying to ignore the flash of embarrassment tightening in my chest. Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's just who I am, but something about seeing people so comfortable, so sure of themselves, makes me feel like an outsider in my own body.

My head sways slightly as I move down the hall, my heels bouncing unevenly around my wrist with each step I take. I feel warm all over, like my skin is buzzing, my limbs loose but unsteady. The alcohol has settled into my veins, making everything soft and a little too bright.

I glance at the closed doors, looking for a bathroom. Some are locked, others crack open briefly before a hand pulls them shut. Laughter drifts from behind them, mixed with low murmurs and the occasional sound of something—or someone—hitting the wall.

I swallow, forcing myself forward and ignoring the feeling of my cheeks getting hot.

At the end of the hall, I spot a door slightly ajar, and relief floods through me. Finally. The drink has begun to dry on my arm and chest, and feels even more sticky. Plus, this entire journey has left me with a full bladder.

I push open the door without knocking, already reaching for the light switch. Then I freeze.

A girl is hunched over the toilet, some strands of her dark hair spilling into the bowl. Her arms are limp, her body sagging as if she used up the last of her energy just making it here. The only sign of life is the slow rise and fall of her back, her breath coming out in ragged little puffs.

My stomach twists. She looks bad.

For a long moment, I stand there in stunned silence, feeling the weight of my own intoxication. My thoughts race—maybe this is what happens when you let your guard down completely, when you let the night take control over you. I know I shouldn't feel bad for her, but a part of me feels a twinge of pity and horror at the rawness of it all.

I clear my throat hesitantly. "Uh... are you okay?"

She doesn't stir.

I take a cautious step forward, but the stench of alcohol and something sour—vomit makes my stomach lurch. I fight the urge to gag, knowing I will probably puke. The air in here is thick, suffocating with the horrible smell, and suddenly, I feel like I need to get out.

I exhale shakily and back away, stumbling back out into the hallway again. My fingers curl around the doorknob, and I pull it shut with a soft click to at least give her some privacy.

The dizziness in my head sways again, making my vision tilt slightly. The alcohol in my veins makes it difficult to think clearly, but I know I need to get out of this state. God, I need water. I turn back around and take a step forward—

And slam straight into someone. My nose collides with someone's hard, unmovable chest, and I immediately wince, stumbling back but quickly regaining my balance by using the door behind me for leverage.

"Hey, watch where you're going, bitch," a rugged voice snaps.

I flinch from the harsh words and tone, my drunken mind lagging for a second.

That voice—why do I know that voice?

My eyes flutter open, the world slightly spinning as my eyes try and focus in the blurred light of the hallway. My stomach twists before I even see his face.

The first thing I notice is the black hair, tousled and effortlessly messy, strands falling forward into his piercing ice-blue eyes. They look the same as I remember from childhood, now hardened with time. They're sharp, intense, the kind of stare that could cut through steel.

His jawline is strong, defined, with a slight clench that makes it obvious he's irritated. His perfectly shaped lips are pressed into a thin line as he glares down at me.

He looks the same as I remember but older, sharper, colder.

No way. This isn't real. This is the alcohol playing cruel tricks on me.

But then, the irritation in his face shifts—his expression falters for a second, his brows drawing together. Recognition. Shock. Like he wasn't expecting to see me, either.

The room feels like it tilts. My lungs tighten, and I force in a shaky breath.

Because I know this person. I know exactly who he is.

Jackson Brooks.

My brother's best friend. My former neighbor. My first and only childhood crush. Somebody I used to consider my own best friend.

Until he left me behind and I haven't seen him in over four years since.