Bad Intentions by Nacole Stayton Page B

pierces my ears.
    I groan in agony. “You could say that.”
    Lifting one lid open, I see her sitting up with her back against the wall. She’s facing directly toward me. Ivory feet with bright blue, painted toes hang off the edge of her bed. I guess she never got the memo as a child: Never—I repeat never—allow your feet to dangle from your bed. Who knows what’s lurking under there, hiding in the dark abyss.
    I close my eyes and try to focus what little energy I have on pulling myself together. My father’s voice plays on repeat in my mind. It’s in sync with each thud pounding in my temples. He’s reminding me of what a moronic move it was to drink so heavily. “Everything in moderation.” He’d always say, as he downed a glass of cheap scotch—that is, on the rare occasions that he actually allowed himself to partake. I remember sneaking into his study once and taking a sip from his bottle. I’d spat it on the floor and got caught up in a coughing fit. My mom came rushing into the room, a worried frown etched onto her oval face. I lied and said that I’d swallowed my gum. Maybe this awful hangover is a punishment for lying to her. Hindsight…
    “Earth to Adaley…don’t make me chuck another pillow at you.” Zoe’s laughter brings me back. We make eye contact, and she continues, “I was saying, you did a handful of keg stands. I’m surprised you’re even awake right now.”
    “Keg what?” I ask baffled by her terminology.
    “You’re kidding me, right?”
    I squint my eyes to try and dull the pounding. “I wish I were kidding.”
    “Okayyy…” she sounds out the word with amusement. “A keg stand is where you grip the rim of the keg and two people hold your legs in the air. It’s like you’re doing a headstand, but there is a tap in your mouth. The goal is to guzzle as much beer as you can.” My face bunches together as I try to recall doing such a thing. “You probably did about five.”
    “Did I look dumb?” I don’t know why it matters, but it does.
    “Umm, no. You rocked it and looked incredibly hot!”
    I grin from ear to ear. I came here open-minded, and while introductions in this place have been a little strange, I’m happy to have a roommate that I can stand. I kind of like this Zoe chick.
    “I remember you said something about you used to be a gymnast something or other. The guys barely had a hold of your legs. It was pretty impressive, if I do say so.”
    Her gloating causes me to laugh. It’s short lived. “I need to shower. If I’m not out in ten, send in reinforcements. I might have fallen, or passed out, or choked on my own vomit.”
    “To be so cute, you’re pretty disgusting. That,” she begins as she waves her hand all around her face. “Blonde hair, good girl thing is all a façade. I can see right through you.”
    I smile coyly and dodge her comment.
    Eying the towel that I’d draped over my computer chair, I reach forward and instantly become frozen. My mind reels, trying to make sense of what is right in front of me.
    What the f…
    He didn’t.
    Oh, shit. He so did.
    On my desk is a bottle of water, two Advil, and a note written on my father’s letterhead. The same paper I’d jotted down directions and my dorm room number on before I went on the open road. I can barely make out the chicken scratch that is Ryle’s name, much less the note.
    “Take these. Drink this. Brush twice,” I mumble, reading his words out loud.
    Zoe pipes up. “Well there’s a domestic side of Ryle I’ve yet had the pleasure of seeing.”
    Is this his idea of a joke? I march toward the bathroom with smoke blowing out my ears and all but slam the door, forgetting that I’m not at home anymore.
    Jerking the teal shower curtain open, I yank the faucet to the left. It takes me an annoyingly long time to undress without falling over. I lean over the sink and peel yesterday’s contacts off my eyes, which is no easy task, I might add. Hot water causes the room to steam and the