Clusterfuck

xxii

The next day, Toby wakes up sick with a stuffy nose, a splitting headache, and absolutely no memory of whatever happened the night before, post-ten o'clock. Including how the hell he managed to get home.

"Are you okay?" Reggie asks when Toby shuffles out of bed at noon, dragging his blanket along with him as if it were a cloak and he an elderly queen. Reg's tone is just questionable enough to the point where a tiny bit of panic spikes in Toby's chest.

"I am absolutely not," Toby answers, his nose completely backed up so he sounds like a gay Donald Duck. He opens the cabinet door to their over-the-counter stash, blindly feeling around for the painkillers as he rests his head on a neighboring cupboard.

"Yeah. I'm not sure why I asked. You look like shit."

"Thanks."

"Any time."

Toby's hand encases the all-too-familiar bottle of pills, only when he shakes it, there is no satisfying rattle. It's completely empty. He wants to slam his head against the cabinet but, for obvious reasons, he holds himself back. It's tempting, though.

"Why," he whispers. "Why. Would you. Put. An empty. Bottle. Back. Into. The cabinet."

"What do you mean, me?" Reggie asks from the couch, the mock surprise in his voice only incriminating him further. "Coulda been you."

"Reggie. Reginald. I know I can be lazy sometimes, but fuck, is it really that difficult to toss a bottle into the garbage?" Toby cries, which certainly does not help the jackhammering in his skull. "Literally—literally all you had to do is turn around and take three steps! Three goddamn steps to the trash can!"

"Okay, okay! Chill! I'm sorry!" Reg says, not sounding sorry at all. "I'll gladly go grab you some more, if you want."

"It's fine," Toby sighs, slinking back toward his room. "I'll take care of it myself."

"Uh, are you sure?"

"Mhm."

"Okay, but—are you sure sure? You really don't look so great—"

"Yeah, I get it Reg. It's fine. I could use some fresh air, anyway."

"Okay." There's a blissful moment of silence before Reggie speaks again, as Toby downs a large glass of much-needed water that he can barely taste. "So, I know you told me you were going to a party, so I knew that you'd be drinking," Reg says, "but I'll admit it, I did not think you had it in you to get as shit-faced as you were last night."

Toby nearly chokes on his water, and whirls around toward Reggie with wide eyes. "Wh-what did I do?"

Reg scoffs and shakes his head. "I mean, you were just a mess, dude. You were crying, and covered in sweat, but also, like, shivering. And you kept mumbling things I couldn't understand. It was super weird seeing you like that."

"Sorry," Toby groans, pressing his palm against his pounding forehead. "I shouldn't have had so much to drink. I didn't say anything embarrassing, right?"

"Nah. I couldn't understand anything that came out of your mouth, anyway."

Toby nods and takes a few steps back toward his bedroom, peeling off his rumpled shirt and jeans—jeez, he never wears jeans—and replacing them with a significantly more comfortable pair of joggers and a freshly laundered t-shirt. He steps into the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror—against his better judgement—and Reggie's right. He looks like the living embodiment of an on-fire garbage can. His face is pale and gaunt and dead-looking, his eyes sunken into his skin as a result of the purple abyss swimming below them, attributable to his horrendous sleep schedule. His hair—God, his hair creates a whole new definition for the word calamity. The longer he stares at his reflection, the higher the desperation to rip his gaze away from it grows. And yet, Toby can't find the strength to look elsewhere.