A group of friends tries to piece itself back together after losing its glue.
*****
It's a quiet October morning in Palo Alto, California, when the news break out--June Beaumont was...
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MERIDIAN
Quick, innocent question: was it a) rude and/or b) illegal to throw up all over two police deputies?
I was definitely aware that the odds weren't in my favor. For starters, I was covered in beer from head to toe, and my own breath reeked of the same beverage. Secondly, I had yet to turn twenty-one, along with everyone else in the room who wasn't wearing a police badge, which meant all of us were in serious, illegal trouble. Thirdly, if they wanted to talk to me about June, it probably meant they had already spoken to literally everyone else but the people who had been closest to her.
My stomach churned—not just for me, but for my parents, too.
Sofia.
I made a mental note to text her, to call her, to warn her; if the police wanted to talk to me, chances were they had either spoken to her or that she was probably next. My warning could give her a possibly well-needed head start, since, according to her, Grace had accidentally slipped up and told the cops June had tried to contact most of us on the night she died.
Everyone tried to contact her back. I didn't return the phone call, and it was eating me alive. That was the thing about guilt, I supposed; it was a gnawing voice in the back of your head, with tentacles that felt a lot like chains, that wouldn't leave you alone. It kept you awake during the night, made you dwell on it during the day, and, no matter what you were doing, you'd always let it overtake you.
I also knew I was fully to blame for the way I was feeling. Even though it would certainly be easier to pin it on someone else, it had been my own decisions that had led me down this road, that had probably been a massive factor behind June's death, and that had brought the goddamn police to Stanford.
So, yeah, I supposed it was not the right time for them to be here.
A coppery scent filled my mouth and I realized, one second too late, I had bitten my tongue way too hard. That was certainly ironic, as I had conveniently forgotten to do so mere moments ago during the unpopular opinions drinking game (if I focused enough, I could feel Natasha's glare glued to the back of my head), but I didn't regret the things I had said, not even one bit. If Natasha could dish it out, she had to learn how to take it, too.
"Uh, sure," I blabbered, stepping back to let them enter the room. "I can talk."
"We'd rather do it in private," the female deputy retorted, while her partner gestured for everyone else to leave. They made a beeline towards the door, with Vienna giving my arm a gentle squeeze on her way out and with Natasha not even bothering to look back, and, soon, the three of us were the only people left. I suddenly felt minuscule, even though I was taller than both of them. "Please, sit down."
