“Wanted to get out of the house,” Caleb says, and hisvoice is light. Easy. Nothing like the tension I can see in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.
Kevin appears from the direction of the bar with a bottle of something amber and four shot glasses balanced between his fingers like he’s done this before. Which, knowing Kevin, he definitely has.
“Then you came to the right place, my man. We’ve got some serious drinking to do. Time to catch up!”
I open my mouth to object—Caleb doesn’t drink much, has this whole thing about maintaining control that borders on pathological—but he’s already reaching for a glass.
“Let’s do it,” he says.
And I watch him do something I’ve never seen before.
He doesn’t line up the shot glass with the edge of the table.
Doesn’t adjust it. Doesn’t straighten it. Doesn’t check the amount of liquid.
Just grabs it and throws it back.
He coughs, eyes watering, and immediately reaches for another.
“Caleb—” I start.
But he’s already tipping it back in two gulps.
No pattern. No counting. No control.
And that’s when I know tonight’s going to be a disaster.
An hour later,I’m trying to keep track of three people at once and failing miserably.
Marie’s still on the dance floor with her arms around Sara and Madison like they’re all best friends, singing along to some pop song I vaguely recognize. She keeps catching my eye every few minutes, checking in without words—I’m okay, still having fun, don’t worry—and I give her a thumbs up each time, even though I’m definitely worrying.
When did I become this person? This responsible person who watches drinks and keeps track of exits and makes sure nobody gets too drunk or too handsy or too anything?
The old Harper—the Harper from four months ago—would’ve been six shots deep by now, dancing on furniture, making out with someone whose name she wouldn’t remember tomorrow. That Harper told everyone to fuck off and took care of exactly one person: herself.
This Harper is stone-cold sober, nursing the same beer she got an hour ago—one I popped the top offmyself—and mentally tracking three different people like some kind of depressing chaperone.
Miles is telling some elaborate story about a summer trip to Costa Rica, hands gesturing wildly, nearly taking out someone’s drink. Kevin’s laughing so hard he’s wheezing, and Sara keeps interjecting with “that’s not what happened!” even though she wasn’t there.
It’s easy. Comfortable. The kind of friend group moment I never thought I’d have. Never thought I wanted, frankly. And I want to lose myself in it. To letthe banter wash over me and laugh at Kevin’s terrible jokes and let myself just be normal for once.
But I can’t.
Because Caleb’s drunk.
Really drunk.
I’ve watched him knock back six shots in the past hour—six—like they’re water.
The careful control he wraps himself in has finally loosened.
His collar’s unbuttoned now—when did that happen? He never unbuttons his collar. Not until he’s home, in his room, following his nighttime routine.
His sleeves are uneven—the left one is rolled higher than the right. That would normally drive him crazy.
He doesn’t notice.
His hair’s messed up from him running his hands through it. Not in the careful, controlled way he usually does. Just... messed up.