Page 1 of Ethan & Grace

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Hey, it’s probably none of my business, but is Ethan OK? James is worried about him. He’s overdoing it a bit with the parties.

Message from Olivia to Henry

Ethan

One Week After the Accident

I’m going to throw up.

The thought was accompanied by a sour feeling in my throat, although I wasn’t sure whether the nausea had been brought on by yesterday’s alcohol or the protein shake I drank just now. It could also have been a combination of the two: the shake and the mix of tequila, beer, gin and tonic, and whisky. It had been a wild night.

I grimaced and dumped the shaker, with its dregs of protein gunk, in the dishwasher. I hated the stuff with a passion. No matter how many different brands I tried, they all tasted the same to me. Like someone had blended old shoes, dirt, and something mouldy. But there was no denying that the shakes worked wonders on my body, so I forced myself to push past my disgust.

I poured myself a glass of water and downed it to get rid of the taste, hoping to flush the queasiness away. I hated throwing up. I’d thankfully mostly managed to avoid doing so in the past few months, but I was afraid it would come for me soon if I didn’t slow down. I pretty much hadn’t been sober since Christmas—the parties this time of year were just too good. First the Pearl Gala, then Nate’s birthday two days later, followed by New Year’s Eve, and finally Olivia Asterdam’s legendary New Year’s party last night.

My stomach may have hated me for my party marathon, but I needed to forget. To feel the emptiness. I wanted that indifference, when the only time that existed was right now and I didn’t care about anything else. Knocking back one shot after another, it didn’t matter that my dad was a bastard of a rapist who was ruining all of our lives. Smoking a joint, I could forget how lost I felt. And when I wore myself out on the dance floor or in bed with a hot woman, it was easier to ignore how lonely I really was. Most people didn’t give a shit about me, but the parties at least created the illusion that I wasn’t alone.

I laughed at myself. I was a pathetic loser—but knowing that wouldn’t stop my feet from carrying me to the next party tonight. To the next hours of oblivion. To the next evasion of my problems. For a few hours, I’d feel better. But only until I sobered up. It was impossible to break this vicious cycle without losing my mind.

Really? a critical voice in my head asked.

My voice.

A voice that I’d silenced a long time ago, because it had brought me nothing but pain, suffering, and grief in the past. Luckily, the buzz of my phone saved me from myself. It was a message from James, probably the only person who actually cared about me.

James:

Hey, are you all right?

You were pretty out of it yesterday.

Out of it? What was that supposed to mean? I’d just been having fun.

Me:

Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit hungover.

A bit. The understatement of the century. The litre of water I’d drunk before bed and the pills that took the edge off my pounding headache were all that were stopping me from being completely wrecked.

James:

Is it true that you went home with Britney last night?

Me:

Yes.

James:

Didn’t she come with Charles?

Me:

Yes. Which made it even better.

James: