I find Caleb outside, sitting on the curb with his head in his hands.
Not sitting properly. Just collapsed there, elbows on knees, head in hands, breathing hard.
No attention to posture or thought to how he looks. No checking if his clothes are straight or his hair is neat.
Just sitting. Breathing. Breaking.
“Hey.” I sit down next to him on the cold concrete.
I can see his hands shaking. They’re not tapping. Not doing that finger pattern he does. Just shaking.
The night air is cold enough to bite, sharp enough to make my breath visible in little clouds.
The party noise is muffled out here, like we’re underwater.
“Hey.” I sit down next to him on the cold concrete. “That was... something.”
“I fucked up.” His voice is thick, choked. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”
“Little bit, yeah. She deserved it, though.”
“Probably.”
“But you’re gonna feel like shit about it tomorrow.”
He laughs, but it sounds more like a sob. “I feel like shit now.”
“I know.”
We sit there in silence for a moment. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks. A car drives past, bass thumping.
“I can’t stop thinking about her,” he says finally, so quiet I almost don’t hear him. “Mom. About what happens if?—”
“Don’t.” I put my hand on his back, feel the tension in his spine. “Don’t go there.”
“But what if?—”
“Caleb.” I make him look at me, gently turning his face toward mine. His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, and he looks so young it breaks my heart. “One crisis at a time, okay? Right now, we’re dealing with you being drunk off your ass at Tyler Morrison’s party. Tomorrow we can deal with everythingelse.”
“Everything else,” he repeats, and laughs again, hollow and broken. “Yeah. Everything else.”
Z appears from nowhere, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “We leaving? Because I’ve probably got over three hundred dollars worth of liquor in here and I’d like to get gone before anyone notices.”
“We’re leaving,” I confirm, hauling Caleb to his feet. He’s heavier than he looks, or maybe I’m just tired. “You’re driving.”
Caleb hands the keys over without argument, which tells me exactly how drunk he is. The Caleb I know would rather walk home than let Z drive his car.
Marie joins us a minute later, looking shaken but okay. “McKenzie’s crying in the bathroom. Like, full meltdown crying. Everyone’s just standing around, not sure what to do.”
“Good,” Z says cheerfully, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder.
“Z,” I warn.
“What? I’ve heard you talk about that bitch. Sounds like she’s had it coming for years. About time someone told her the truth.”
He’s not wrong, but I still feel a twist of guilt.
“Who thefuckmade my girlfriend cry?” comes a roar from behind us inside the house. “I’ll smash your teeth out!”