APRIL
My eyes burn, my throat is dry, and my head is pounding. I haven't had a hangover like this in forever; maybe not in my life. I'm not usually a heavy drinker, but last night I went off the rails. Mine and Anna's fight pissed me off so much, that drinking until I blacked out seemed like the best option. I hadn't considered the after-effects. I typically don't.
"Who were you with last night?" Jackson asks, sitting next to me on the bed. He brushes the hair out of my face and I let out a long sigh, eyelids fluttering.
"Myself," I say.
"You went alone?" he says. I nod mutely. He's frustrated, and lets me know as much with a soft groan. "Why would you do that?"
I shrug. "Was upset."
He sighs and messes with the blanket. "Well, it was dumb. Something bad could've happened."
"I'm fine."
"I know you are," he says. "But bad shit happens to drunk girls, especially drunk girls who are alone. Will you just promise to tell me the next time you decide to go on a bender?" He rubs his temples. "That was so irresponsible."
"You basically already said that."
"I just can't believe you'd go and get fucked up on a school night," he says. "Just… what the fuck? I don't get it. I mean, I know you and Anna fought, but come on."
"It was a bad fight. I was mad. I'm actually still mad. And I'm mad that I'm still mad, 'cause the alcohol was supposed to make that go away. So, now I'm thinking it was pretty pointless."
"Sure," he says, his heart only half in it. "What did you guys fight about?"
I roll my eyes mostly to myself and turn halfway over. "Doesn't matter," I mumble, tucking my hands under my chin.
"Can you even remember?"
"Yes," I snap, glaring in his direction.
"What else can you remember?"
I rack my brain, trying to place the last image I have of last night. I can recall walking in the doors of Paddy Murphys, sitting down at the bar, and drinking a beer. After that, everything until waking up in this bed is gone. I don't remember calling Jackson or getting in his car. I don't remember paying for my drinks, or if I even did. It's scarier than I let on, having a blank spot in my memory. That's never happened to me before. I make a vow, right then and there, that I won't do it again. He's right, it was irresponsible. But I don't want to admit that out loud.
"Not a lot," I say.
"April…" he says.
"What?"
He gives me a weird look. His eyes are heavy with feeling, and there's a line of concentration between his eyebrows. "I'm just freaked out," he says, not keeping my gaze for long.
"I'm fine," I insist, trying to play it off. "I'm not gonna do it again. Quit worrying." He doesn't speak, but all his worries swim behind his eyes so obviously that he might as well just voice them. "Baby," I say, shifting to rest my head on his lap. Habitually, he weaves his fingers through my hair to comb it out of my eyes. The feeling is instantly comforting. "I'm okay. I'm really sorry for scaring you."
"Thanks," he says, looking down at my face.
After smiling at him and resting my eyes for a moment, I reach for my purse that's hanging on the bedpost. I dig around until I come across the shape of my phone, then pull it out. I look at the screen and press the home button, but it doesn't light up. "Shit," I say. "Dead." Then, I clamber for his charger that I know is plugged into the wall.
"Not right now," Jackson says, gently taking the phone from me. "You need to rest. You're super dehydrated."
"But my phone," I say, whining.
"It can wait," he says. "You should go back to sleep."
"I'm not tired," I claim.
"Then rest your eyes," he says, then hands me the Gatorade again. "And drink more of this."
I oblige without putting up a fight, grabbing the bottle to take a long swig. Once I'm done, I set it on the floor and glance at Jackson because I still feel his eyes. "What?" I say, without a hint of a tone.
"I don't know," he says. "You just don't seem like you."
I force a small, fake smile. "Well, I promise I'm not pulling the old switcheroo," I say.
He doesn't laugh. Neither do I.
…
A while later, Jackson lies down next to me and falls asleep. I love him when he's asleep, sometimes even more than while he's awake. Maybe it's not that I love him more, but he's so innocent. He's the quietest sleeper ever; he never snores, and he barely moves. If he does, it's only to pull me closer. And he's always so warm.
I've done enough sleeping, though, and Ibuprofen helped my head. So now, all I do is lay here, listen to him inhale and exhale, and rehash what I remember from last night. The fight, mostly. It's not so much the words that come back, but the expression on Anna's face. She's never looked at me like that before, so desperate and resentful. We're sisters, twins to raise the stakes, so of course we fight. All the time. But for some reason, this one feels ten times more serious than anything we've ever come across before. For some reason, I feel like she doesn't like me anymore. I know she loves me. It would be impossible to stop loving a twin. Nothing she could do could make me stop loving her. But liking someone is different. Liking someone is fleeting and temporary. And I don't think she has any warm feelings towards me right now. My stomach hurts because of it, and my chest does, too.
I rub the spot that aches, throbs really, between my breasts. It feels hollow, like something is missing, though I know that's impossible. Maybe I need to throw up. Jackson put a big bowl next to the bed just in case it happened, so I lean over and close my eyes, expecting to heave. But nothing comes. Instead, the pain dulls and disappears, so I lie down again. As I close my eyes, though, it returns with a vengeance.
My cheeks heat up as it roots itself and coils, twisting into a braid of harsh stabbing. Is this what cardiac arrest feels like? Am I dying? Can too much alcohol do that to someone?
I elbow Jackson awake, probably too hard. "Ow," he says, one hand on his ribs. "Baby, stop. What?"
"I think I'm having a heart attack," I say, sitting up. The room spins when I do. The hangover is definitely still here.
"No, you're not," he says, but he sits up, too. With one hand on my back, he rubs small circles over the t-shirt of his that I'm wearing.
"I think I am," I say, massaging my chest. "They say the pain happens right here for women. I read that on the back of a fitting room door once. And it really hurts. It came out of nowhere."
"Boo, it's anxiety," he says. "It has the same exact symptoms as a heart attack. You just need to breathe."
My skin begins to cool as I realize he's right. He's always right, and so logical. I don't know what I'd do without him. I would never make it alone. That thought makes me realize that I need Anna, too, but I can't have her right now. She took Audrey's side. I still feel betrayed.
But I have my other favorite person here, the one who's never let me down a day in my life. The one who can always talk me back to Earth. "Okay?" he says, helping me lie flat again. "You okay?"
I nod slowly. The pain begins to subside, which makes me feel better. "Sorry," I say. "I got scared."
"Don't say sorry," he says.
"I was thinking about the fight," I mumble. "And stuff." He doesn't press for details, but he does watch me. I keep my eyes on the ceiling, and when I blink, tears fall. "How can Anna…" I sniffle and close my eyes for a long beat. "After how Audrey hurt me in high school, how can they be close now? Does none of what happened before even matter?" I open my eyes again and they sting. "Have I been a burden to her this entire time?"
"What?" he asks, totally lost.
"That's what she said, basically," I tell him. "She was like, I've always been there for you so it's shitty that you can't be here for me."
"There for you, like, in high school?"
I nod. "And I told her to stop making it sound like a job. But maybe it did feel like that to her. I just take, take, take, and she just always gave and gave to me… I know I wasn't the easiest person to be around back then, and I'm probably still not, but… I never thought she saw me that way." I turn to him. "You don't see me like that, do you?"
"Baby, no," he says, instantly. It's just what I need to hear, but it makes me further devolve into sobs. Louder and more insistent, these beg to be heard. "And she doesn't, either."
The chest pain comes back. I press a hand to the spot like I had before and try to breathe, but air doesn't come easily. I'm choking, drowning above water, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I'm crying too hard to make sense of anything, and nothing is as it should be. It's all wrong. I'm all wrong.
My scars ache and tingle, then itch like crazy. With tense fingers, I reach down and start to scratch them like mad, intent on making the crawling feeling go away. If it breaks skin, it breaks skin. I don't care. I just want all this to stop.
That thought is scarily akin to how I used to think back in high school, when I'd get out the razor blades and the safety pins. But now, the only things I have are my nails. Raking them over the scars isn't enough, but it's all I have.
When I start scratching harder and more manically, Jackson realizes what I'm doing and grabs my wrists. "Stop it," he says firmly, and I go limp. I close my eyes and curl into him, and he rubs my back. He must think I'm insane. I might be. But crazy people don't actually know they're crazy, do they? I don't think so. So, I'm not psycho… just unhinged. I'm not sure what's worse.
"I don't feel good," I moan, turning onto my side. My head feels light, but too heavy. I've never had a hangover this bad. And I can't stop crying. Jackson was right earlier when he said that I don't seem like me. I don't feel like me, either.
When I look at him, he's wearing a worried expression. That doesn't make me feel any better. "Do you want me to call your mom?" he asks.
I shake my head with what feels like vigor, but it probably comes across weak. "No," I say. "She'll be mad."
"Okay," he says. "Then maybe you should try going back to sleep. Did you drink more Gatorade?"
"I'll throw it up."
"Alright," he says, and I can tell he's trying to sound sure. But the veneer is thin and I see through it. I appreciate the effort, but I'm scared. I have no idea why I'm scared, but I am. Am I dying? I promise myself, right then, never to drink again. "Lay your head on me," he says.
I give in. Of course, he's giving me everything I need, but I still don't feel right. Sleep will help. It has to. So, I do as he suggested and rest my head in the crook of his shoulder, and he wraps me up tight in his arms.
"You're okay," he says, very softly. He kisses my hairline and shushes me like you would do for a baby. "I got you. I got you right here."
"I don't feel good," I say again, and I know I sound like a child, but I can't help it.
"I know," he says, because there's not much else to say. He doesn't know how to fix it and neither do I. This is the best we can do.
So, I close my eyes and try to stop crying, hoping with everything I have that this awful feeling will be gone by the time I wake up.
…
I don't know how long I sleep, but I wake up to the sound of Jackson's voice. I know it's his voice, but for some reason it doesn't sound like him at all.
"Oh, my god," he says. "Karen, I…"
He's on the phone with my mom. After I told him not to call. Suddenly, I'm annoyed. I still don't feel well, but I'm not dying. He didn't need to call her. "Babe," I groan, trying to lift my head. For some reason, though, it's still heavy. I could sleep for a year. "Babe," I say again, this time a little louder. But he won't look at me.
In fact, he turns his back. I furrow my eyebrows and stare at his shoulders with a frown, confused at what he's doing. I can't hear what he's saying or whether he's speaking at all. My brain is so foggy, almost blank. Like nothing is inside it at all.
"Jackson," I say again, trying to sound firmer. It doesn't come out that way, though. "Jackson?" Something isn't right.
I know it for a fact when he turns around and his face is ashen. I've never seen him wear the expression that he's wearing right now, and I can't put my finger on what emotion it is. It's either complete blankness or he's feeling too much to choose just one. Both options scare me.
"What's going on?" I ask, desperate for answers. But again, he doesn't respond. Instead, he just hands over the phone with a stiff, outstretched arm, and I take it. "Hello?" I say.
"Hi, honey." My mom has been crying. My stomach drops. My chest hurts worse now.
"Mom, what's going on?" I ask. My voice trembles and I can't keep it from doing so. I don't think this is about my hangover.
"Honey, I…" she begins, but her voice breaks. She inhales deeply, tries to clear her throat, but a sob escapes instead of a continuation of her sentence. "Oh, honey," is all she follows with.
"Mama," I say, my whole body gone clammy. "Please, tell me what's going on. Please."
She's crying hard now, not even trying to speak. Then, the line goes quiet before I hear my dad's voice. "Sunflower," he says, and his tone is so, so serious. The last time I heard him sound like this is… I don't know. Maybe never.
"Daddy," I say, sounding young. "Why's Mom crying like that? What happened?"
"April," he says solemnly. "It's Anna."
After Anna's name is followed by the word "dead," I stop listening. I refuse to hear whatever comes next. I wish I hadn't heard as much as I already have. It's not possible. She's not. I would feel it if she were dead.
But I have been feeling it. Or rather, the complete opposite. I've been feeling so incredibly empty. Is that because my twin is gone?
I drop the phone and hear it clatter to the floor in the back of my mind. I don't care, though. I sit there, legs hanging off Jackson's bed, and stare at a spot on the wall. There's a little nick that I made - one night, Jackson was spinning me around while cradling my body in his arms and my phone smacked the plaster. That feels like a million years ago, so inconsequential. Everything does, everything that led up to this point.
Anna is dead. My twin is gone.
How am I still here?
Jackson is standing in front of me, his eyes lined up with mine, mouth moving slowly. I know he's speaking, but I can't hear a word he's saying. It's like I'm trapped underwater, just below the surface, watching everything happen above me. I blink slowly, right at him, and he prompts me to respond with a nod of his head. He has tear stains on his cheeks. He's crying. Am I? I don't think so. How am I not crying? My insides are broken. All I should be doing is crying.
"...you hear me?" I catch the tail end of his sentence as he pops the bubble I found myself in. His hands are on my shoulders, steady as anchors. He's always so steady.
I shake my head no. I didn't hear him. I'm not sure if I want to.
"She was in an accident," he says, now kneeling in front of me. He puts his hands on my thighs and rests his head on my knees, and I realize how hard he's crying. I want to put a hand on his head to comfort him, he loves that. But I don't. I can't move. He lifts up so I can see his bloodshot eyes. They're already so red. "She swerved off the road. Probably to miss something, they're not really sure." He tries to inhale, but his breath catches in his throat. "She hit a tree." He closes his eyes for a long beat and I watch the tears leak out. "Two joggers found the car this morning. And… and her."
My whole body is cold. I don't think I'll ever be warm again. My twin was dead on the side of the road all night. She wasn't found until morning. No one knew for hours. We didn't know, we didn't help, and we left her to die. Maybe she suffered. Maybe she could've been saved. But we let her go. I did. I let her go.
The chest pain comes back and I welcome it. The rest of my body is numb except for that specific spot, that searing red belt across my sternum. I almost need it. If it goes, I won't feel anything. And I need to feel something.
Jackson gets up from the floor and climbs into bed with me, pulling me into his arms, though he's the one who's crying. I still haven't shed a tear and I'm a traitor because of it. Jackson still can't catch his breath, but I can't center my thoughts. This can't be happening. This is a sick dream, and when I wake up I'm going to apologize to my sister. We'll make up. Things will be different. I'll meet her boyfriend and be good to him. We'll put this behind us. I can't wait to forget this moment. I make a promise to myself that I won't tell her about this dream. She wouldn't like to know.
Jackson's chest vibrates with his tepid breath. "It was so late. Why was she out on the road?" he asks.
I don't have the answer to that; at least, I don't think I do. He's right; it doesn't make sense. She should've been asleep. But then again, last night, I was doing something else when I should've been asleep, too. Maybe she was going to see him. Maybe he's the one to blame.
"I just don't get it," Jackson continues.
I shake my head to offer my agreement, but I'm not sure he registers it. My body is limp and unresponsive; I can't do much for him right now, and he can't do much for me. Neither of us know what the next step is. Without Anna, it doesn't seem like there is one. She was a sister to him as she was to me; they were close in their own weird way. He's grieving, but I still can't accept the fact that she's gone.
I need to check my phone. This is a mistake. I'll text her and she'll answer, and we'll get everything straightened around. I'll dry Jackson's tears and call my sister, and once he hears her voice he won't be so upset. She can't be gone. He'll feel silly for crying, and I'll have been the one to keep a level head for once.
I slip off the bed and go for my phone. Not Jackson's that I dropped, but mine that's dead and in my purse. I dig for Jackson's charger and plug my phone in, then stare and wait for the screen to light up. It takes forever, but once it comes back to life, I type in my passcode and open the messages immediately, ready to get this sorted out. But as I click on Anna's thread, I decide that calling her will fix this faster. So, I click the dial pad and type in her memorized number, then listen to it ring. It goes and goes, and each time the sound reverberates in my ear it makes me sicker. Then, I hear her voice on the outgoing message.
"Hey, it's Anna. Leave me a message. Or just text me. Bye!" Then, she laughs. It's cut off by the sound of the beep, though. I don't say anything. I just hang up and stare at my call log.
Right below the call I just made is another one to Anna's phone, placed at 2:03am. She answered it, too, because the font is black - not red. It lasted for a minute and two seconds, that's it.
I rack my brain. That was last night. I can't remember why I called her or what was said. I can't remember at all… that is, until I do.
I was at Paddy Murphys wearing jeans and a tank top, which wouldn't have been weird if it was May or June. But it was January, which meant that everyone else was bundled up and the guys were all staring at my shoulders. As if that was something to get horny about. Or maybe they were staring at my hair, which was a certified mess. After leaving the dorm, I threw a winter hat over it and sweated all the way to the bar. I could see frizzy tendrils flying around my eyes. Maybe the guys weren't horny at all. They were probably confused. Maybe a little disgusted and concerned. I had already started drinking, and I wasn't going slow.
I had a beer in front of me, and I don't even like beer. But the glasses were cold and they gave me something to hold onto, which I needed. I needed a reason to be there, no matter how stupid that sounded. And sitting at that bar, making small talk with the bartender while nursing a beer, was reason enough.
"Hey, beautiful. You're not drinking alone, are you?"
I turned towards the source of the voice, some stupid part of my brain thinking it was Jackson. He's the only one who calls me "beautiful" like that, and the only one who's allowed to. But it wasn't him. It was some smarmy guy probably in his mid-40s with the gut to prove it.
"Fuck off," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Bitch," he said in return, kicking his barstool away.
"Takes one to know one," I muttered under my breath. When drunk, I'm even worse at comebacks than I am sober.
"Ignore him," another voice said. I looked up and saw yet another man.
"I have a boyfriend," I said, and my words were slurred. The word "boyfriend" sounded funny out loud.
"Oh, yeah, for sure," the guy said, palms up like he wanted me to know he wasn't a threat. "But Jimmy does that to every girl with a pulse that walks in here."
I took a long sip of beer. There was no way I was going to let it get warm. "Wonderful," I said.
He laughed. "No, I think you're pretty," he said. "But you have a boyfriend. Like you said."
"Yeah, I do, and he's hot," I said, just to say it.
"Too bad he's not here," the guy said. "I'd give him my number. But instead, I can just pay it forward by taking care of you." I shot him a look. Probably a bloodshot one, but all the same. "Not like that," he clarified. "But I won't let Jimmy come back. And the rest of your drinks are on me."
"Why?" I asked, squinting.
He came back with, "Why not?"
I didn't know how much time passed as we had drink after drink. I lost count after a while, of both the hours and the shots slammed back. Whenever I get drunk, it's usually with Jackson on his couch, and we end up giggling until 3am when we fall asleep on each other. This didn't feel like that. I felt sloppy and like I could say anything, or would say anything. I felt like I was going to make a mistake that I really didn't want to make with a guy who was probably gay. He was gay, right? That was why he wanted Jackson's number? That's what I told myself, but it reached a point where I needed to get away from him. It wasn't that I wanted to cheat, not at all, but I had too much tequila in my veins. And tequila is known to make my clothes fall off before I make very, very poor decisions.
But I couldn't connect my synapses to say the right words. I kept laughing, having a good time. Every time I looked towards the door, someone new would walk in and buy everyone another round. I eventually lost track of the maybe-gay guy who talked to me first. I didn't really care where he went, because I wasn't alone. Everyone in Paddy Murphys was suddenly my best friend. I completely forgot about the bad shit that happened earlier in the evening and just let myself go. It felt good. I stopped worrying and let myself feel good. Who cared if I stayed out all night and needed to be scraped off the sidewalk in the morning? At least I had fun. At least I was with people who cared about me. So what, if I didn't know their names? They made me laugh and they thought I was awesome.
"Aren't you cold?" someone asked. It was a girl. I couldn't tell if she was older than me or my age. Or maybe she was younger, with a fake ID. I had no idea. She had one of those faces.
She ran her fingers down my arms and the contact felt so good. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to go home and bang Jackson. I'm not typically a horny drunk, but right then I was feeling it. Like, a lot.
"No," I answered, blinking hard right into her eyes. They were this crazy magnetic, dark blue. I'd never seen anything like them before. "You're pretty," I said, before I had any control over the words tumbling from my mouth.
She giggled and touched my arms again. I pretended it was Jackson. I wanted him really, really bad. I wondered what he was doing right then. There was no clock in sight, but it was probably late. He was probably asleep. Even if I went home now, I'd have to wake him up to have sex. He wouldn't complain, but it wouldn't be the same as both of us being drunk and fucking.
"So are you," the girl replied.
I didn't want to fuck her. It wasn't like that. But there was something about her that was driving me crazy and I couldn't put my finger on what it was. But I would never cheat on Jackson. Ever, ever. I wouldn't even let the thought cross my mind. He's my favorite person in the world and I didn't know this girl from Adam.
But then she kissed me and it all went to hell. Because I liked it and I let it last for a beat too long before I stopped it. Her lips were so soft and she tasted like the alcohol already coating my mouth, and her hands were gentle on the slopes of my jaw. Only when her tongue touched the tip of mine did I jolt back to reality and realize how bad I fucked up.
"No," I said, stumbling backwards, away from her.
She looked shocked. "You didn't like it?" she asked.
I wiped my mouth. "I have a boyfriend," I said.
"I thought you had a boyfriend, you lesbo!" the guy from before hollered. He was smiling. "All you had to say was that you like pussy."
"I don't… I…" I stammered, mouth gone dry. The room was spinning. I had to get out of there. I could feel the girl's eyes on me, the girl I didn't even know, and I still felt her on my lips. "I have to go."
As I turned around, she touched my ass. For a moment, I thought she was copping a feel, but I soon realized she was slipping a piece of paper into my jeans pocket. "Call me," she purred, running her hand down my arm again. She kissed my cheek after.
"Fuck off," I said, and shoved her. I tried to put a lot of force behind it, but she barely moved. All she did was laugh. "Fuck you… fuck," I breathed, then tripped my way out of the bar.
I stood on the sidewalk, shivering. I couldn't remember where I left my coat, and the sky was so black. It felt like the middle of an endless night. I could literally feel the world spinning as it revolved around the sun, and I needed it to stop. But what would happen if it did? I wondered if I would feel this way forever, even when I stopped being drunk.
I sat down against the building, knees to my chest. The air was cold, but the ground was colder. I barely felt it, though, with the alcohol coursing through me. All I felt was shame. I needed to get out of there, but who could I call? I couldn't call Jackson after what I did. Even though she technically kissed me, I let it happen. Didn't I?
I didn't want to call Anna, but I had no other option. I knew I'd be waking her up, but I would freeze to death if I waited out here all night. Ubers didn't come around this way. And I wasn't going back into that bar.
I pressed her contact and, with a shaking hand, held the phone to my ear. It rang and rang, but right before voicemail could pick up, she did. "Hello?" Her voice was muffled, maybe against the pillow. She had definitely been asleep.
I cleared my throat and tried to sound as sober as possible. "Banana, I'm drunk." The words came out faster than I could police them. Shit.
"Sunny?"
"Uh-huh," I said pitifully.
"Where are you?"
I craned my neck to look at the sign above the bar, as if it might have changed. "Paddy Murphys," I told her. "I fucked up. I fucked up really bad." I started to cry and knew I wouldn't be able to stop. "Can you come get me? I need you to come get me."
"Alright," she said, sighing as she presumably sat up. "I'm coming. I'll be right there."
"Hurry."
We hung up and I waited. And waited. And waited. My sense of time was off, but I knew that when the horizon started to turn a watery orange-yellow that I had been waiting too long. My skin had basically iced over. I couldn't wait any longer. I pushed the reason as to why I couldn't call Jackson out of my head and pressed his contact. Anna probably fell back to sleep and left me here to freeze.
"I need you to come get me," I told him. My whole body was shaking at that point. I needed help.
He was there within ten minutes, helping me into the car that was blasting heat. As I thawed, the tears came back and the memories from inside and just outside the bar faded. I was crying but didn't know why.
But now, I do.
I made two big mistakes last night.
I cheated on Jackson.
And I put my sister on the road that killed her.