“Sherry.”

    I was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol.

    “A Pinot Noir.”

    My vision was getting blurry. Dimly, I was aware of the chatter at the bar, the music playing in the background. I was having trouble keeping my words from slurring.

    “C-chardonnay.”

    From what seemed like miles away, a smooth male voice declared, “I’ll pay.”

    I turned around, and almost impaled myself on a bar stool. I giggled, stumbling. A pair of hands reached out and steadied me.

    “What’s your name?” came the voice.

    I staggered to the counter, knocking over a glass of sherry.

    “Stephanie.”

    “Well, Stephanie, do you need a ride home? It seems like you’re pretty tipsy right now.”

    “Sure,” I stumbled, and I felt my head colliding with the counter.

    The last thing I saw before I blacked out was the dirty yellow tiles on the floor.

    I woke up in bed with a pounding headache. Oh God, I was throbbing in parts I didn’t think it was possible to be sore in.

    I sat up and my whole body screamed in pain. I promptly threw up on the wooden floor. Groaning, I crawled to the toilet and continued to vomit.

    “Never try it again.” I gasped out. Gods, what was I thinking? Well, lucky for Justin, I was too busy retching my guts out to deal with him.

    After I had enough strength to lurch to the cupboard and drank some Alka-Seltzer, I was feeling much better. Or at least, the best you can be with a hangover.

    Since I had no appetite, I opened my laptop and searched for cures to a hangover.

    “Eating pickles helps with your hangover?” I muttered, clicking on the link. Just then, my head gave a throb, and I accidentally clicked on a local news website.

    The headline blazed across the screen, “Man jumped off bridge, suspected suicide,” with a photo of the victim below it.

    I froze. I knew that face. No, it couldn’t be!

    It was Justin.

    “C-chardonnay.”

    From what seemed like miles away, a smooth male voice declared, “I’ll pay.”

    I turned around, and almost impaled myself on a bar stool. I giggled, stumbling. A pair of hands reached out and steadied me.

    “What’s your name?” came the voice.

    I staggered to the counter, knocking over a glass of sherry.

    “Stephanie.”

    “Well, Stephanie, do you need a ride home? It seems like you’re pretty tipsy right now.”

    “Sure,” I stumbled, and I felt my head colliding with the counter.

    The last thing I saw before I blacked out was the dirty yellow tiles on the floor.

    I woke up in bed with a pounding headache. Oh God, I was throbbing in parts I didn’t think it was possible to be sore in.

    I sat up and my whole body screamed in pain. I promptly threw up on the wooden floor. Groaning, I crawled to the toilet and continued to vomit.

    “Never try it again.” I gasped out. Gods, what was I thinking? Well, lucky for Justin, I was too busy retching my guts out to deal with him.

    After I had enough strength to lurch to the cupboard and drank some Alka-Seltzer, I was feeling much better. Or at least, the best you can be with a hangover.

    Since I had no appetite, I opened my laptop and searched for cures to a hangover.

    “Eating pickles helps with your hangover?” I muttered, clicking on the link. Just then, my head gave a throb, and I accidentally clicked on a local news website.

    The headline blazed across the screen, “Man jumped off bridge, suspected suicide,” with a photo of the victim below it.

    I froze. I knew that face. No, it couldn’t be!

    It was Justin.