Check, Please (Book #2)

Eighteen.

I woke up feeling absolutely terrible, and for more than just the obvious reason. In between swearing that they'd never drink again, everyone who'd gone out for my birthday spent the morning jockeying for toilets to bury their heads in. My throat was raw, and each time I threw up, it felt like someone was lighting my esophagus on fire. To make matters worse, my stomach also lurched whenever I heard someone walking down the hallway as I made my way between the bathroom and my bed. There was a part of me--a big part--that wasn't ready to face Corey. Not yet. 

I'd stayed up for hours after getting home, my mind reeling as I struggled to wrap my head around what had happened at The Commuter. Even now it didn't really make sense to me and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the image of his bloodshot eyes when he climbed out of the cab.

I wasn't stupid enough to think that racism didn't exist but I didn't think it existed here. At least not in the way that I'd witnessed it last night--in a way that couldn't even be denied. Not in L.A., not in a city where everyone tried so desperately to be different from the next person on the street. In a place as diverse as this, how could anyone hate anyone?

But, as I pulled my comforter over my head now, it hit me that maybe that's what Corey had meant when he said that I didn't understand. Maybe I didn't, maybe I did live in a bubble. I liked to think that I wasn't completely ignorant to the world's woes, but until last night, it had never even crossed my mind that someone might dislike one of my best friends solely because of the color of his skin. 

What was worse was realizing that Corey hadn't seemed particularly surprised by the bouncer's reaction. Recalling the quiet defeat in his voice when he'd told me to go inside the bar brought on such a strong pang of sadness that I mistook it for bile. Afraid of spewing vomit all over my sheets, I quickly leaned over the side of my bed to stare at the plastic bucket I'd set out below. Even though nothing came up, I stayed in that position until the patterns in my floorboards began to swirl. Eventually, I fell back onto my pillow and wondered if my brain would ever stop racing.

It wasn't until mid-afternoon that my hangover began to subside. Of course, as the pounding in my head lessened, the growling coming from my stomach grew to an irritating frenzy. I tried to ignore it at first, but eventually no amount of denial could suppress the fact that I needed to eat something. Still feeling a little woozy, I resisted a rush of lightheadedness when I threw off my sheets and slowly got to my feet. I knew there was a box of granola bars somewhere in my room, so I shuffled over to my desk, figuring that'd be the most logical place for me to have stuffed them.

While I rummaged through mounds of clutter and junk, I winced at the sound of someone banging on my door. "What?" I said, clutching my head as I pulled the door open.

Panic coursed through me when I saw Corey standing on the other side, his face initially tilted towards the ground. He met my gaze, and, for a second, I wondered if I could close the door again and dive under my bed. I didn't know what to say, though I felt some relief when he offered me a weak grin. 

"Good to see that you look worse than I feel," he said. 

"I could barely move until an hour ago." I stepped aside so that he could come in if he wanted to. He did. "What's going on, man?"

"I slept through brunch," he replied, and if I hadn't known that it would send me reeling, I probably would've smacked my forehead.

"I completely forgot brunch was being served today."

"Yeah, that's that old age setting in."

Although some of the tension from last night still hung between us, it began to ebb when I laughed. "Want to go grab something to eat?" he asked.