ADDICTED

30

LEAH

"Come cuddle with us!" bellowed Isabelle.

"No, you freako!" I drunkenly shouted back.

The couch sat stiffly under me, but my mind was already floating. My head throbbed. The ceiling seemed to swirl over me.

There was quiet in the small house for a long time. Minutes or hours, I couldn't have known. At some point, the raspy dryness of my throat propelled me off the couch. I shuffled into the kitchen.

My toes curled against the coolness of the tiles. The fridge whirred and a pipe near the sink intermittently whimpered.

After finding the right cabinet, I slid up onto the counter and reached for a plastic cup. As my fingers locked around it I turned away to slide down.

A figure stood in the threshold across the room from me. The scream lodged in my throat. I stared, willing my drunk eyes to make a figure out of the ghost. They narrowed ever so slowly.

Timothy's rounded features sharpened into focus. His eyes flashed like flint in the stove clock light. I swallowed. I was torn between sliding off the counter or standing up on it.

All night Timothy had been quiet, observing us all. Observing me. He gave me chills of the bad kind.

"Hey," I grumbled.

The one word sent a wave of nausea up from my stomach. I clutched onto the counter edge and fought against the urge to vomit.

"Trouble sleeping?" he asked, stepping into the kitchen. He made his way to the fridge.

"I guess. I haven't been this drunk in a while."

"Why's that?"

I said nothing while watching him pull a Blue Ribbon from the fridge. The hazy yellow light cast his face in a moon-like glow. His eyes were cutting as they turned to me.

He let the door close on its own, choking out the light. My poor eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness again.

"Are you in recovery?" he pressed.

"No. I just . . ." Blowing out a sigh, I slid off the counter. "I'm not good at moderation."

He chuckled with a sip from his can. "Who is?"

"You, it seems. You aren't drunk like the rest of us."

"Richard wasn't drunk either."

"Richard was playing DD," I countered.

I pressed my fingertips to my temples with a wince. Why was I being so hostile?

"Maybe I like being sober around Isabelle," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I want to remember everything when I'm with her."

It should have been a sweet thing to say, except Timothy's voice was flat. My hair follicles stood. He was like a snake, dancing around a flame. I knew he was going to strike soon.

"Isabelle has been through a lot," I told him. "She deserves someone worth her time."

He stared blankly at me. Or maybe there was just so much in those eyes I couldn't make a single part out.

"She hasn't been the greatest friend to you, though, has she?" he asked with an inflection of smugness, taunting me.

I blinked at first in disbelief. Then my temper flared, an ember catching light. I was afraid of him but I also wanted to punch his throat.