Lighthouse Lullaby | ✓

Part 13 | Sunday, 27th September

There's a small, annoying man inside my head. He's stuck, and he's trying to get out by cracking my skull open from the inside with a jackhammer. Also, he's swearing very loudly. In French.

That's what my hangover feels like.

I manage to pull myself to a sitting position. The clock on the nightstand to my right reads 7:34 AM. K-Stew — sprawled out over most of my queen-sized bed — raises her big puppy eyes to my face. She gives me what I can only describe as the most judgemental shame-on-you look I have ever received from a member of the canine species.

One good look at myself in the mirror across my bed is enough.

The same black dress from last night, but with patches of dirt smeared all over the fabric. (Where did they come from?)

I-drank-too-much-last-night hair. (Bits of K-Stew's white and brown fur mixed into the strands.)

Strangely full, red lips. (Kylie Jenner challenge?)

A terrible, sharp pain in my legs. (Too much dancing?)

I, Ambrosia Underwood, am the poster child of the perils of underage drinking. Pounding head, barely functional limbs, sluggish movements, mouth as dry as my sense of humor. It hurts to exist.

I tiptoe into my bathroom, careful not to wake my parents. My tight dress feels more like a straitjacket as I struggle to take it off.

I step under the shower and turn it on. The heat and force of the water help me enjoy a pain-free and annoying-small-Frenchman-free shower. Every time I close my eyes, images appear behind my eyelids. They are like old polaroid photographs, vague and faded.

A children's park. An empty table. A wide staircase. My lighthouse from almost a mile away. Dylan's face lit up with laughter.

Then, there's a sudden thrill of pleasure that makes me shiver despite the hot water cascading down my back. Before I can figure out what it means, a horrible dread takes its place.

Something bad happened.

I feel like shit. I go downstairs, have breakfast and take a small nap before going on a long walk with K-Stew. But I constantly have the feeling you get when you're on vacation. You're on the plane, but you can't stop thinking about whether or not you locked the front door. I've forgotten something horribly important, but I'm too far away from the memory to do anything except worry.

***

I spend the majority of the evening getting dressed for the SUFR. It takes effort and time to perfect a 'no-makeup' look that requires thirty-seven makeup products.

"You look beautiful, sweetie!" Mom gushes when I take my seat at the dinner table. Turning to Dad, she pointedly looks at his messy hair and loose tie. "It's nice to know that someone wants to make an effort."

Dad loosens his tie even further and ruffles his dark hair before grinning at Mom.

Dinner is slow and awkward. Mom and Dad are trying their best to hold a conversation. It's obvious to them that I'm upset about something. They try to coax it out of me by asking question after question about school. It's a rapid fire round as my parents compete to see who can get the truth out of me first.

It's a struggle just to formulate monosyllabic responses. I feel physically ill with confusion and anxiety. (Mom's chicken pot pie isn't helping, either.)

I'm casually slipping another forkful of the pie into K-Stew's slobbery mouth when it hits me. A memory from last night. Dylan kissing me, my back flat on the cement floor of the lighthouse.

I drop my fork on my plate with a clatter. My eyes are shut tight. I can hear Mom and Dad calling to me, asking if I'm okay.

The ocean, the cold, his hands, our lips. It's all so real.

Almost immediately, another vague memory resurfaces. Dylan is saying something to me, something that makes my heart drop to my stomach. But I can't catch the words.

What did Dylan Frost say? Why can't I remember?

K-Stew huffs impatiently and presses her nose on my knee. She licks her muzzle expectantly, waiting for me to drop some more food.

"Sorry, sorry," I say to Mom and Dad. "I'm fine."

Raised eyebrows, frowning mouths, and wide eyes full of concern. My mom and dad exchange a totally-not-surreptitious look. In that moment, another chunk of pie disappears into my dog's mouth.

I squirm in my seat as I keep asking myself, What happened last night?