Hey, Darling.

“If you could be lost with anyone in the world, who would it be?” Kennedy asked me drunkenly, his words slurred as he propped up against the back of the rock.

We had both decided that we were too drunk to sit on something without a back. He gave me his jacket to sit on and we were now leant up against the big rock.

“Prolly Mia, ‘cuz she’s so outgoing that she wouldn’t bother asking anyone anything or making a fool out of herself. And she’s fun to be with, so it’s wouldn’t suck so much being lost.” I answered, then thought about what to ask him.

“What do you like best about being in a band?”

We had gotten through all of the basic questions: age, favorite color, favorite band, best childhood memory, etc. Now we were digging for something deeper.

“Probably getting to tour,” he said. “It’s amazing getting to go to all of these different places and meet these different people.”

“That does sound like fun.”

“What city do you want to visit?” He asked, leaning over and taking a sip of the bottle next to him.

“I’d like to go to London. And Paris. New York, Boston, Chicago, LA. I want to go everywhere.” I said. “Even the small places. I just want to go, see things. I want to experience.”

“You ‘re experiencing right now,” he said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Doesn’t that count?”

“Oh, yeah,” I mused sarcastically. “Drinking wine at a party in Arizona that I won’t remember when I wake up. Sound like some real excitement.”

“There are fun things to do here,” he countered. “You just haven’t done them yet.”

“Like what?” I asked, incredulous, as I rolled my eyes. “Please enlighten me.”

“There are clubs, and a cool water park. It doesn’t matter where you go or what you’re supposed to be doing. You can make anything an experience. Just depends on who you’re with.”

“Then I’m not with the right people,” I shrugged. “Mia’s always gone and I’ll be damned if I go somewhere with my Grandma.”

“I’ll take you somewhere,” he declared boldly. “So you can ‘experience.’”

I almost declined right then, the rational part of me remembering his arrogance and the way his voice sounded when he was teasing me. Instead, I shrugged. I almost, kinda, maybe wanted to go with him somewhere. If he was going to be nice.

“I will,” he seemed really sure of himself. “You will have fun. I promise.”

I almost told him that I didn’t believe him. I almost scoffed and told him that his drunken promises didn’t seem very trustworthy. But of course, instead, I kept to myself.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, sharing sips of rum and staring out into the darkness. I had to squint to see the outline of the trees.

“What are your favorite things?” He asked suddenly.

“I dunno.” I said. “A lot of things.”

“Like?” He prompted. I almost asked him why he wanted to know, but I knew that wasn’t how this game worked.

“Um…” I thought. “Thrift stores. And mint-chocolate chip ice cream. Flea markets and international food. Old Volkswagen Bugs with shiny paint and alleyways filled with graffiti. And books. I really like books. “

“What kind of books?”

“The good ones,” I answered stupidly, before reaching over and plucking the bottle from his hands right as he was going to take a sip. He looked shocked for a second, but regained his composure.

“Which ones are the good ones?” He asked, eyeing the bottle as I brought it to my lips.

I took a sip and swallowed it slowly before answering. “Invisible Monsters was good, and I know there are like four songs written about it and everyone rolls their eyes because it’s just a ‘scene’ thing to read, but I liked it. The Alchemist was amazing. I’m also all for this British teen author Sarra Manning.”

He nodded. “Lemme guess? You read Twilight?”

I rolled my eyes at his answer. “Yes, but back in ‘05 when it barely came out, bitch. I had to wait a year for every installment. And I don’t care about how everyone hates it and goes on and on about it’s literary crap-ness. It’s a damn good love story and Edward Cullen is the my kind of imperfection.”

I surprised myself as I let the words slip past my lips. I was being bold and even cussed at him. I was acting very drunk and immature.

“Your kind, huh?” He slurred. “So that means you’ve got to be tall, skinny, with fangs and greasy hair to catch your interest?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Or maybe they’ve just got to be jaded. I don’t even know what the hell I’m saying right now.”

He just looked at me for a second, really looked at me. It made me uncomfortable, and I shifted in my dress.

“You’re turn,” he said quietly after he was done seemingly burning a hole in the side of my face.

“Um…” I was stumped. My mind wasn’t really functioning properly from all of the alcohol consumption.

“Can I pass?” I asked, then realized that I could use that as my question and grinned.

“Is that you’re question?” He looked at me disapprovingly, as if he was disappointed from my lack of creativity.

“Yup.” I nodded happily. “Answer, please.”

“Whatever,” he rolled his eyes and took a bigger swig from the bottle. Our liquid was getting dangerously closer to the bottom of the bottle.

“Is that your answer?” I mocked him, giving my best disapproving glance.

“Yes.” He snipped back, and I was suddenly reminded of why I didn’t really like him in the first place. Under his breath, I heard him mutter, “Bitch.”

My eyes widened, offended. My emotions were so much quicker to overreact when I was intoxicated. ‘You…you…” I gasped, struggling to stand up from the ground. “…jerk.”

I was surprised at how mad I sounded as I stumbled around, trying to see in the darkness. I couldn’t really see Kennedy’s face anymore, but I almost felt like he was rolling his eyes.

“C’mon, Molly,” he sighed, using the rock as a ledge as he stood up to. “Stand still.”

“No!” I shouted at him, fumbling around in my heels. I felt like the wedges were too high. I felt like an idiot.

“Molly,” he whined, stepping closer to me slowly. “Just calm down. I didn’t mean it. I’m about as drunk as you are.”

But he was forming coherent sentences. I sounded like a three-year-old.

I shook my head. “Nuh-uh. You wouldn’ta said it if ya didn’t mean it.”

This time, I could see him rolling his eyes. He stepped closer to me and I felt his hand grab my arm. I tried to struggle against him, attempting a step back as he took another step forward. My foot moved awkwardly and I could already feel the pain as my ankle twisted in front of me and the frame of my shoe smashed against my skin.

I was falling forward suddenly, letting out a small yell of surprise as I felt myself grow closer to the ground. I then also felt a skinny arm pressed against my back and my middle, trying to hold me upright. He was very close.

“You’re even clumsier when you’re drunk,” he mumbled to himself as I struggled against him.

“Hey-” I started to protest, pinching my face together in distaste as he brought me closer to him. I was in mid-word of objection when I felt these warm things smash into my lips and it took a few seconds before my brain would operate quickly.

I did not like this. At all. I had only ever kissed one other boy, and that was after we held hands and went record-shopping together for two months when I was fourteen. Now there was some arrogant drunk guy smashing his face with mine.

I felt something slimy lick my lip and I assumed it was his tongue. I opened my mouth, ready to pull back in rage, when I felt his tongue enter my mouth. It immediately felt like he was attempting to do a spin-cycle in my mouth, and there was no gentle caressing or nipping that I expected from a good make-out session. This was all sloppy kisses. Drunken, sloppy kisses.

I was thoroughly pissed off and figuring out the quickest and most efficient way to get him off of me (I was aiming for nicking him in the nads) when I heard a satisfied shriek from behind me.

“There you are!” Someone shrieked/slurred at me. “And you’re making out! I’m so proud of you!’

The two of us pulled away simultaneously and I resisted the urge to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

I felt like I was in some cliché movie, drunkenly making out with a jerk and having my sister catch us. I felt very sick to my stomach.

“I told you you’d come around!” Mia said excitedly, and I could see John behind her, making faces at her obnoxiousness. He looked a little sympathetic. I was guessing he wasn’t drunk.

I just shook my head and I heard Kennedy protest from behind me.

“I was just trying to get her to shut up--” he was saying, but I wasn’t listening as I stumbled over and leaned down, feeling the sick rush come up my throat and out of my mouth.

My face felt hot and there were tiny chunks of vomit in the bits of hair surrounding my chin.

I remember being really, really sorry for throwing up in their garden.