The final beep ricochets dully through my head and I lift my cellphone to my ear. Please pick up. Each ring of Brooke's cellphone sends a stab through my body.

"Hi!"

"Brooke—"

"You've reached—"

I click the phone off. Where is she?

10:12 flashes on the screen, looking as cold as I feel in its mechanical blue glow. I snatch my keys off the dresser and head out. I have to find her before I lose my nerve.

"Peyton?"

Not again. My dad's sitting on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen. He shifts, fixing me with a wary stare, clasping and unclasping his hands.

"Where are you going?"

"Uh, I have to get some notes from Haley."

"Oh. Is it important?"

"Yeah, I've got a test on Friday."

Standing up, he makes an unintelligible sound. I'm treading on eggshells. Forcing myself to outlast this staring competition, I face him as bravely as I can, trying not to reveal anything as I stare back into the same eyes that I've seen in the mirror for seventeen years. He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut.

"I'll be back really quick," I promise.

"Okay," he concedes, waving me out the door.

I dash out to my car, wondering what the hell I'm going to say to Brooke.

--

I pull up to Brooke's house in record time. Her mammoth of a house is illuminated only by the porch light. Great. The Davises are AWOL. I press the doorbell anyway. It reverberates throughout the giant skeleton, coming back to my ears in a low, mournful groan.

I double back to my car. There's only one place where she can be, and I'm not sure if I'm going to be glad to find her there. I just hope I reach her before she's completely gone.

--

Bump-and-grind music and blinding lights assault my senses the moment I step into the club. Squinting against the pulsing blues and pinks, I can only make out nameless, faceless silhouettes rubbing up against each other on the dance floor. I guess we really are the same in the dark—horny and desperate for human contact.

Instinctively, I manoeuvre over to the bar, risking bodily injury as I dodge elbows and kicking feet. Sure enough, at the end of the counter is Brooke. And a group of beefy frat boys.

"You lose! Take it off!" Brooke yells, gesturing wildly at the biggest guy in the group.

"Aw, no fair. You haven't lost a single round," he growls back.

"Suck it up, big boy. No one beats me at this game."

As I walk over to the rowdy bunch, my heart rate threatens to overtake the pounding beats emanating from the club's speakers. I have to get her out of here.

"Hey, what are you guys playing?" I ask, keeping my tone light. As difficult as it is to see Brooke smashed out of her mind, it's easier to deal with her when she's wasted than when she's sober. I just need to play along and steal her away the first chance I get.

Brooke giggles at me and pulls me into the middle of the group. "We're playing strip poker," she says, giving me a sloppy hug.

"But there are no cards," I observe.

"Exactly!" She hiccups and grins hugely, swaying a little on the bar stool. I step up next to her and she leans heavily against me, too inebriated to even sit up straight. Her breath reeks of alcohol.

"Brooke, we need to get out of here."

"Not now! Rob's gonna take his shirt off," she whines.

Rob tugs at the hem of his too-tight tee, twisting and struggling to get it over his head. His torso is red and hairy, and his friends are cackling like idiots. This is not what we need right now.

"Okay, we're leaving."

Slipping my arm around Brooke's waist, I half-carry, half-drag her out of the sweaty group. Brooke does her part by screaming at the people on the dance floor. She chokes on a laugh and starts coughing, which only serves to make her laugh even more. I haven't seen her this out of it in a long time.

"We're almost there," I coax, staggering all the way to my car.

"Please, Peyton, I can walk," she says, wriggling away from me. She walks straight into the car door, slamming her hip against it. Then she just topples over and slides into the passenger seat.

Weighed down by dread, I slip into the driver's seat. I look over at Brooke, at her unfocused eyes and her boneless limbs, at this alcohol-aided act which she has obviously, painfully put up to block out reality. To block me out. Guilt coils around my chest as Brooke lets out another meaningless slur. She's drunk because of me.

"Behind those hazel eyes … Swallow me and spit me out …" She pauses, a lopsided grin forming on her lips. "Swallow and spit," she giggles.

God, Brooke. Why did you have to go so far? Why did I let you get so far?

"It's so pretty tonight," Brooke remarks, staring at nothing in particular. "I want to dance. Dance with me, Peyton?"

"Not now, Brooke."

The void in my heart splits open a little wider when I turn to her. A careless smile adorns her face, belying the betrayal I know is eating away at her.

"I'm sorry," I say, dropping my head back against the headrest. "I'm sorry I'm not braver."

"But you're not a beaver."

"Nevermind."

--

"Come on, Brooke, where are your keys?"

My shoulders are straining with Brooke's weight and she's too uncoordinated to find her own keys. I almost dislocate a shoulder trying to keep her upright while fumbling around in her purse.

"I think they're in my pants," she says, looking a little greener than when we just left the club. "Oh no, wait, I think they're in the tiny pocket in my purse."

Suppressing a groan, I lean her against the front door and rifle through her purse one more time. Finally. I unlock the door and we hobble inside. She doesn't protest as I lead her to her bedroom.

"Whoo, I'm done for tonight," she declares, flopping tummy-down onto her bed.

"Really? Because you look like you could still down a few more shots," I say sarcastically. I know I'm to blame for Brooke's behaviour, but with everything that's going on, I feel more than a little frustrated.

Brooke grumbles into a pillow and I sit on the edge of her bed for ten minutes, listening to every senseless noise until silence permeates the room at last. I roll her onto her back before heading to the kitchen to grab some aspirin and a bottle of water. I set the pills and the bottle down on her bedside table, right next to the cluster of photographs.

Brooke and Lucas. Brooke and me. Brooke, Lucas and me. Brooke laughing, Brooke making a crazy face. Brooke laughing with me, Brooke making a crazy face right beside me.

Holding the largest frame in my hand, I compare it with Brooke's sleeping form. I can't decide whether she looks better in real life or in photographs.

The light from outside filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow on her body. The tiny star on the end of her necklace is cradled in the shallow dip behind her collarbone. Her chest rises and falls slowly, evenly, and I remember all the little things she's taught me over the years, like some yoga technique about breathing to cleanse your mind or something else I found just as hilarious. She's taught me how to dress, how to make boys want me, how to pick out the perfect shade of eyeshadow. She's taught me how to deal with loss, life and everything in between. For someone who's supposedly the most self-centred girl in town, Brooke's given me more than I care to count.

So why can't I do the same for her? Why can't I just give myself over, completely, wholly, every nerve and every cell and every inch of me, to her?

Brooke sighs in her sleep, rolling over onto her side and clutching the pillow I always use when I sleep over. I brush a lock of hair away from her eyes and marvel at the delicate curve of her nose and her perfectly angled jawline. I want nothing more than to crawl into bed with her, nuzzle up against her warm skin and never leave this sanctuary.

But I can't, so I wrench myself away from Brooke and all that's safe, fighting against my most basic instinct.

--

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.

Ow.

Note to self: When compared with a 220-pound guy, you are a lightweight.

My room is saturated with sunlight and … are those birds I hear chirping? What—does the world have some sort of vendetta against me? Is this Breaking Brooke Day?

I peel my eyelids open a smidge. Two little pills and a bottle of water are on my bedside, thank god. I swallow the pills and chug back some water, making sure not to open my eyes. What time is it, anyway? I don't think mornings are supposed to feel this warm.

Flinching, I manage to catch a glimpse of the clock. It's one in the afternoon.

"Shit, school!"

The sudden motion sends a wave of nausea rumbling through me. I slowly lower myself back down onto the mass of pillows. I guess the girls are just going to have to deal with that new cheer routine without me.

Anyway, I'm not sure if I can deal with anyone right now. Definitely not Lucas. And Peyton? I can't tell what she wants. For the first time since I've known her, I feel like I can't get a read on her. When we were in California, she was all too happy with the smoochies. But now that we're back in Tree Hill, she's being totally paranoid and moody. And people think I'm the one who worries about what people think. Way to prove them wrong, P. Sawyer.

My stomach churns uneasily. Fantastic. I should really try to remember that the aftermath of an endless series of tequila shots is not nearly as fun as drinking them. But you know what they say: When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Just because I drank myself silly last night doesn't mean that I'm giving up. I'm going to war … right after I get this jackhammer out of my head.

--

The doorbell barely has time to echo before the door swings open. Both our smiles die instantly.

"Mr. Sawyer."

"Brooke."

"Um, is Peyton in?"

"She's in the shower."

Standing on tiptoes, I try to peer down the hallway. I can hear the faint strains of a wailing guitar. I make a move to step over the threshold, but this new and not-so-improved Mr. Sawyer stands his ground. Fine. I'll just have to drop and go.

"Can you make sure she gets these?"

He narrows his eyes at me, then looks down his nose at the bouquet of lilies and the bow-topped box in my arms. Oh, shit.

"They're from a secret admirer." I smile brightly, like a girl who's not trying to hit on his daughter. "He's too shy to talk to Peyton, so he asked me for help," I add, trying to keep the babbling in check.

"They look nice," he responds dryly, scepticism practically dripping from every syllable.

I sneak another peek at the box and the flowers. They're pretty. Too pretty to have been picked out by your garden-variety high school guy.

"Of course. Brandon wouldn't know a flower from a twig. I picked them out," I sass back.

A rigid non-smile stretches taut across his features. He holds out his hands. "I'll give them to her."

"Thanks!" I chirp, hauling ass away from Satan's front door. What is up with that man? I hope he hasn't locked Peyton in a dungeon, because I need her to get my note—my last resort. Goldilocks has one week to mull over that. If she doesn't bite, I don't think I'll have enough in me to keep trying. One last shot, Peyton. Take it. Take me.