Chapter 43

I felt her hand move to unbutton my dress—slowly, carefully, as though testing my reaction. She undid one, then two buttons. Her other hand slipped under the hem, fingertips grazing my thigh and traveling up, unhurried, deliberate, until they reached my hips.

My breath hitched.

She was being gentle. Tender, even.

And then I felt her fingers tug at my panties.

That’s when it hit me.

It’s Kate. It’s Kate who’s touching me.

My entire body froze.

“Oh my God!” I gasped, practically jolting up from under her. My voice cracked, too high, too sharp—raw with panic and disbelief. I pushed away from her, away from her lips, her touch, everything.

Kate’s eyes widened. She scrambled back as though I’d slapped her, stunned, her face suddenly drained of color. Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Her hands hovered in mid-air, unsure of what to do.

“Wh–Wha...” she stuttered, lost and confused. “Jenny... I thought...”

“I–I’m sorry,” I blurted out, out of breath, heart hammering in my chest. “Kate, I’m really sorry... I just... I don’t know what I’m doing.”

I jumped off the couch, fingers shaking as I frantically tried to fix my dress and hair. I couldn’t meet her eyes. I couldn’t even breathe properly.

Kate still hadn't moved. She sat frozen, lips parted, hands limp on her lap. The warmth in her expression was gone, replaced by a stunned kind of blankness. She didn’t stop me when I turned around and rushed out.

I didn’t even hear the music or the chatter anymore. My feet carried me past the remaining partygoers like I was invisible. Some people tried to say goodbye or waved me off, but I barely registered them. My mind was a blur of emotions—shock, guilt, confusion, regret.

Oh my God. What did I just do?

What the fuck did I just do?

I fumbled with my keys and made it to my car in a daze. The alcohol buzz was still there, heavy and warm in my head, but a cold rush of shame was starting to mix with it.

I can’t go back inside. I can’t face Kate. Not after what just happened. Not when I practically let her—

I shook my head. No. No, I needed to get out of here.

I could sleep in my car. Maybe that was safer. At least until the panic in my chest stopped clawing at my ribs.

"Ughhhh..." I groaned and hit the steering wheel repeatedly. I thought the pain might clear my head or help me breathe. But it didn’t. All I felt was numbness.

I shouldn’t be driving. I knew that. But I couldn’t stay here. I had to go.

Please let my parents be asleep, I silently prayed as I started the engine. If they saw me like this—drunk, messed up, nearly crying—it’d be game over. They’d probably never let me out again. And anyway, I’m not even eighteen yet.

I tried to focus. Drive straight. No sudden moves. No swerving.

The roads were quiet. The digital clock on the dash blinked 12:49 AM. It felt later somehow. Or maybe I just felt older tonight—exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

I reached for my phone instinctively to check the time again or to scroll and forget.

It wasn’t there.

Panic bloomed in my chest. Where is it? Shit, shit, shit.

I don’t have a pocket, I was wearing a dress. I must’ve left it behind. On the couch? The kitchen? Maybe it fell on the floor when Kate and I were—Ugh!

I gripped the steering wheel tightly, blinking rapidly. That was the least of my problems.

I parked, but I barely remembered how I even made it home. My limbs felt heavy, my thoughts even heavier. I opened the door and stumbled out into the cold air. The minute my shoes hit the pavement, my eyes darted to the parking spot just a few feet away.

Emma’s car was still not there.

It was her boyfriend’s car.

I didn’t even have to double-check. The pain stabbed through me like a freshly sharpened knife.

Why does it still hurt this much? Aren’t drunk people supposed to feel numb?

But I didn’t feel numb.

I felt everything—like someone had turned up the volume on all the noise in my head. Like the world was too loud, too sharp, too cruel.

I leaned against my car and slid down, knees folding beneath me until I sat on the concrete. The coldness seeped through the fabric of my dress, but I didn’t care.

Tears welled up. I pressed my arms against my knees and buried my face in them.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not tonight. Not ever.

I don’t even know how long I sat there. Maybe minutes. Maybe longer.

Then I heard footsteps.

“Jen? Oh my God—is that you?!”

My head snapped up at the sound of her voice.

Emma.

She was running toward me, her face pale, eyes wide with worry. Behind her, someone followed—a guy. Probably him.

“Jen, what happened? Are you okay?” she knelt beside me, hands trembling as they touched my arms, my shoulders, brushing my hair away from my face.

Her touch was soft, but it burned.

Why does her touch hurt now?

“Did someone hurt you? Are you injured?”

I stared at her, dumbfounded.

She looked like she was about to cry. Like she actually cared.

But where was this when I needed her? Where was this two days ago?

“Jen?” she called again, her palm now cupping my cheek. “Hey, look at me.”

God, I missed this.

I almost reached up to cover her hand with mine—to hold it, to tell her I still needed her.

But then I saw him.

Her boyfriend, lingering behind her with a concerned look on his face. Just standing there. Like he belonged.

And all that pain I tried to bury came flooding back again.

“I’m fine,” I said flatly, pulling away from her hand.

She blinked, confused. “Are you—are you drunk, Jennifer?”

Jennifer.

God, she full-named me.

“What?” My brows knitted together. “No. I mean—why does it matter?” I pulled my arms from her grasp, but her fingers wrapped around my wrists before I could fully get away.

I stood up, wobbling slightly. I tried walking straight, pretending I wasn’t falling apart inside.

But Emma chased after me. She reached out, her arms catching me before I could stumble again.

“Stop it, Emma,” I muttered, trying not to let the words shake.

“W-What?”

“Just stop, okay?” I said louder this time. “Stop pretending you care.”

She flinched.

Her grip loosened slightly. I saw it—her face. It cracked. Her eyes darted away like she couldn’t bear to look at me.

But instead of letting go, she tightened her hold.

“You’re drunk and barely walking,” she said, her voice low, strained.

“And so what?” I snapped. “I was sober for two whole days. You didn’t care then.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

I freed myself from her and staggered toward my front door. My keys were somewhere in my purse, but I didn’t even reach for them. I just stood there, breathing hard.

Then her hand was on my arm again.

“What the—?”

Before I could finish, she pulled me—forcefully—away from my door.

“What are you doing? Let me go!” I tried to resist but my limbs felt too weak.

She didn’t answer. She dragged me—literally dragged me—to her place. Opened her front door. Hauled me inside.

The moment the door closed, she shoved me gently but firmly onto her couch.

“What the hell, Emma?!”

“You’re drunk. Drunk and—” she wrinkled her nose “—you stink.”

I scoffed. “Why the hell do you care?”

I tried to get up but she pushed me back down again.

Her voice turned sharp. “Where did you even go? Where did you get this wasted?”

“I was at a party!” I yelled. “With people who actually want me around!”

Emma’s eyes hardened. She looked me over again.

“Did you even realize your dress is wide open? Two buttons undone and I can almost see your entire—” She stopped herself, her face heating with embarrassment.

I looked down.

Oh my God.

She was right. My dress had come undone. My bra was tilted slightly, half of my chest exposed.

My face burned with shame.

No wonder her boyfriend stayed back. No wonder everyone stared.

I scrambled to fix it, tugging at the buttons with clumsy fingers.

Then I remembered. “Where is your boyfriend, by the way?”

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