Lightheaded

warning for what could be considered dubious consent for alcohol use that i obviously don't condone.

Late October 2013

October and the beginning of fall came hard and fast, like the rain that it began with. It seemed like one day Jillian and Harry were studying on their little terrace in shorts and tank tops and the next they were bundled up on the sofa, watching rain pour and leaves turn. It made Jillian a little nervous to see the seasons change so quickly and vividly compared to back home. Cold weather had never been good for her, it seemed to always send her into some sort of slump. She was afraid New York would only amplify it.

She made it until October. Zayn was having a Halloween party.

“You can’t be late, okay?” Jillian mumbled, bobby pin held between her teeth as she tried to find something to do with her hair that kept it out of the way. She hated it in her face when she was doodling in the back of class.

“I know, I know,” Harry’s voice was garbled by the toothpaste in his mouth.

It was one of those days where Jillian wasn’t exactly sure what she was feeling. Not really anxiety, but not pure excitement. Somewhere murky in the middle. She had a day full of classes and then enough time to change before meeting Harry outside of Zayn’s for the party and she’d slept through her first alarm and she just didn’t like being rushed.

“Our outfits are all laid out,” she plucked the bobby pin out of her mouth and secured it at the back of her head, “So you really won’t have an excuse. And don’t forget your blue scarf thing, ‘m not wearing that itchy wig for nothing.”

Harry spat into the sick and turned on the cold water, “I won’t be late.”

It was enough to settle her for then, enough to get her to hum along to whatever weird, indie song was coming from Harry’s phone.

They were going as Thing 1 and Thing 2 from The Cat in the Hat, Jillian in a long sleeved t shirt dress with her logo printed on the chest and complete with a blue wig, and Harry in a matching tee shirt and blue headscarf. Harry hadn’t been particularly thrilled with the idea of attending Zayn’s party but Jillian had managed to bribe him with matching costumes and the promise of free booze. She couldn’t really remember a Halloween that they hadn’t done matching costumes.

“Why’re you dancing like that?” he snorted after he’d rinsed his mouth and splashed water on his face.

She hadn’t even really noticed she’d been moving that much. Her calves felt a little bit like pins and needles and it’d been natural to try and wake them up again even if she wasn’t sure why they’d fallen asleep in the first place.

“‘M not dancing,” she made a face, offended, “My legs are asleep.”

He watched her jiggle her legs and rolled his eyes, “Weirdo.”

*

Jillian had had a long day and it was colder than she anticipated and her patience with the world was wearing very, very thin. The bench outside the shop (and Zayn’s apartment) was cold and uncomfortable, but she sucked it up for Harry and the promise of food and alcohol inside. He’d promised he wouldn’t be late.

After the first ten minutes of occupying herself with mindless games on her phone, that jittery, excited feeling under her skin had faded. Instead a heavy, sinking feeling had replaced it in her stomach. And she wished she’d worn tights.

Harry, wouldn’t forget her or stand her up, she knew it. She was his best friend and best friends did not let the other show up to a Halloween party without their Thing 1. He’d probably gotten caught up with a phone call on his way out of the office or couldn’t find matching socks back at the apartment.

After twenty minutes, she was worried. She sent him a text but it didn’t deliver. She called him and it went straight to voicemail. The panic in her veins was growing hotter by the minute. She didn’t know what to do, who to call. She felt like a child. Like her mom had lost her in IKEA or something.

After half an hour, the worry had sparked into anger. He’d fucking promised. They’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror and she’d watched him promise. Suddenly, hurt and anger were clouding everything. She wasn’t worried, she didn’t fucking care where he was, because it wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Where he’d promised to be.

She was preparing to leave a particularly nasty voicemail when the door beside her opened and there appeared Niall. In a Cowardly Lion costume.

Considering they’d all agreed not to give away what they were going as, she would’ve fallen over onto the ground in fits of laughter. But she couldn’t even find it in herself to crack a smile. (Not even at the whiskers drawn on his face in what she was afraid was Sharpie.)

“There you are!” he almost sounded relieved, “Been waiting for you for bloody ages!”

It was only then, when she tried to respond, that she noticed the massive lump blocking her throat, “I-I. I-I was waiting for Harry.”

It was like slow motion as the excitement and light faded from his big, blue eyes, replaced by worry lines tucked neatly between his brows, “Didn’t he tell you?”

Her stomach dropped impossibly lower, “Tell me what?”

Niall’s lips began to move, trying to find something to say and failing. She could see the gears turning in his head, realizing what had happened and trying to figure out what to say and how not to make it worse. She’d learned he was the peacekeeper, the one she could rely on. Always there with a beer and a shoulder to cry on. But this was something he clearly hadn’t been prepared for.

“He said he wasn’t coming,” he admitted and began wringing his hands nervously, “Something about the office keeping him late.”

“Of fucking course he did,” it felt like that spark of anger, the one that had been hidden under worry and anxiety, had just had gasoline dumped on it, “Un-fucking-believable.”

“He didn’t tell you…” Niall trailed off, not asking in the slightest. He sounded a little like he was trying to wrap his head around it.

Jillian was too. It was so incredibly unlike Harry, to leave her all alone and humiliated, to tell Niall and not her. He’d assured her he’d be there on time, he hadn’t complained about attending since she’d suggested the costumes over dinner a few weeks back. But still there was a whisper in the back of her head that only fuelled her rage. A whisper that told her he’d never intended to come at all.

“No,” she turned her phone off and shoved it into her purse, fuck him, “He didn’t.”

“Oh, fuck, Jillian, ‘m sorry,” Niall went to run a hand through his hair but was stopped by the mane of his costume, “I-I thought he’d called you first.”

“It’s not your fault, Niall,” she knew her voice was shaking but she tried to keep her composure. Harry didn’t get to stand her up and ruin her night. He might have stepped all over her dignity, but she didn’t need it to get drunk and forget about him.

“Don’t let this ruin your night, yeah?” he was trying and it didn’t make the sting hurt any less, but it was nice to just have someone there.

“Yeah,” she swallowed the lump in her throat along with her pride, “Let’s get shitfaced.”

*

The first shot went down easily, the second even easier. The party was filling in quickly, people she recognized and people she didn’t, some in bloody masks and others in frilly dresses. She was still feeling sorry for herself by the third shot, when Kelsie finally showed up.

“Oh, you’re so screwed,” Jillian snorted, elbowing Niall’s ribs.

“Wha-” he broke himself off, spinning around from the half assed game of beer pong they'd been watching, eyes landing on Kelsie, “Oh fuck.”

Dorothy. Of all things.

The alcohol had clouded Jillian’s brain just enough to let out a little laugh, “You’re dead. She’s gonna kill you right here. There’s gonna be blood everywhere, Zayn’s gonna have to rent a carpet cleaner and-”

“Niall.”

“Oh Jesus,” he breathed and downed what was left of whatever had ended up in his cup, “Kelsie, I had no idea, I swear on my life.”

She’d stalked over, ruby slippers and all, hands on her hips. Even Jillian was a little afraid of her in the moment.

“Did you tell him?” she hissed, this time at Jillian.

She felt her eyes widen, not wanting any part of the inevitable argument that would last into the wee, drunken hours of the morning.

“No! You didn’t even tell me!”

Kelsie’s jaw tensed, cheeks burning pink. She wanted to say more, Jillian could feel it, she wanted to make a scene and if it wasn’t Zayn’s party, she probably would’ve.

“Let’s get a drink,” Jillian reached for her arm, trying to defuse the inevitable, “C’mon.”

She followed, surprisingly compliant, but Jillian didn’t miss the shocked, grateful look Niall sent her. She returned it with a shrug.

*

By quarter after one, Jillian was shitfaced on Zayn’s little balcony. Kelsie had left her for a drunken piss and she was a little too dizzy to move. It was a little too cold to be sitting out in her short dress, but it was quieter and for the first time all night, she could breathe. She’d hoped getting drunk would mask her anger or at least let her forget about it. Instead, she realized, the world was just too spinny for her to think straight about anything.

That was why when the sliding glass door cracked open again, she was grateful. Drunken shit talking with Kelsie had recently become one of her favorite hobbies.

“Did you get me another drink?” she yawned, eyes pulling away from the people on the street below.

“No,” a deeper voice than she was expecting came from behind her, “Don’t think either of us need another.”

Her breath caught in her chest and her head whipped around which only made everything a little more spinny. There was Zayn, an unlit cigarette between his lips and a blanket draped over his forearm. She hadn’t seen much of him all night, he’d been busy flitting around playing host. Now though, his once slicked back hair had fallen down in his face a bit and his leather jacket had disappeared.

“Oh,” she hummed, not entirely disappointed that he wasn’t Kelsie, “Hi, James Dean.”

He snorted, “‘M Danny from Grease.”

“Mm,” she hummed, “Same thing.”

He dropped the blanket in her lap as a greeting and plopped down next to her. He was silent for a minute, digging around in his pocket, lighting his cigarette, taking a long drag. Jillian’s eyes didn’t feel as heavy as they had without a warm body next to her a few minutes ago.

“So,” he mumbled finally, “You gonna tell me what happened to Thing One?”

Underneath all the alcohol, the sinking feeling in her stomach made a faint reappearance.

“Nothing happened.”

That was the truth. He just hadn’t shown.

“Then why’re Niall and Kelsie so busying whispering about you that they’ve forgotten to argue?” he snorted.

She wasn’t at all surprised by his observation and she didn’t really care. She knew they were probably worried.

“Nothing happened,” she repeated and pulled her knees to her chest under the blanket, “He just didn’t show up. I-I waited outside your apartment for like, half an hour.”

“Jesus,” he breathed, “Prick. He didn’t even call you?”

She shook her head, resting her chin on her knees, “I called him and it went straight to voicemail. My texts wouldn’t even deliver. He told Niall he was stuck at work.”

“Niall?” he sounded disgusted, exactly how she felt.

She rolled her eyes, “Exactly.”

“That’s shit, Jillian,” he shook his head, “He’s shit.”

“H-he’s never done that before,” she admitted softly.

“That’s no excuse.”

Somewhere deep down, she knew that. But she was drunk and she didn’t want to be angry or sad or hurt. It could wait until morning.

They sat and talked for so long that Jillian forgot about Harry, about Kelsie and Niall, about the party all together. It was nice to be around him without his intimidating mates and (off again) girlfriend Nina or while they were at work. It was nice to be surrounded by the crisp city air, to be able to breathe.

She remembered Nina coming out with a boy attached to her hip and a smirk on her lips, giving Jillian a thumbs up at Zayn’s arm around her. She remembered Niall and Kelsie being the last ones to say goodbye, but she didn’t have any idea what time it was. She remembered her phone dying, but not caring at all. She remembered the way Zayn’s eyes shone when he slurred something about being the only ones left, but being unable to pull away.

*

It was an accident. That was what Jillian told herself when his hand slid up her dress, when her dress ended up on his floor. That was what she told herself when her phone was left dead on his nightstand.

It didn’t hit her what a mistake it was until there was light burning against her eyelids and she realized she had no idea where she was. All she knew was that there was a warm, heavy body far too close for comfort and if she didn’t move, she was going to be sick all over them.

She’d never appreciated studio apartments until that very moment, when she needed a bathroom within arm’s reach.

She knew her eyes were open but she could hardly see as she stumbled out of bed and towards the open door. There was light streaming in from the tiny window, but she could hardly make out the toilet. She imagined that was what drowning felt like, knowing you needed air but being unable to reach for it, a heavy haze wrapped around your brain and eyes.

She only threw up twice, probably because most of what her stomach had contained was alcohol, and then dry heaved for a while until she thought she could move. All she wanted to do was rinse her mouth and find her clothes and slip away before Zayn heard her.

Her hands and arms shook a little as she tried to haul herself to her feet and failed. Three times. Every fucking time she moved her head off the toilet seat, the world went a little sideways and if there had been anything left in her stomach, it would’ve come up again.

It reminded her of the morning after Zayn’s last big party, the sickest she’d ever been, but worse. And suddenly, she was scared.

Eventually she gave up. She let her head spin and her heart beat too fast. She let her eyes fall shut and her head lull against the wall. She didn’t care that she was naked on her coworker’s bathroom floor. She didn’t care that she’d fucked him. She didn’t care that Harry hadn’t shown up.

“Jillian?”

Her eyes blinked open heavily, everything still felt wrong. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, or even if she’d been asleep or passed out, but she knew she was still on the floor, without any clothes or dignity.

“I-I,” her mouth was so dry that it hurt to speak, “I-I’m so sick.”

She couldn’t even find the energy to convey how sick she was, she just hoped he could take a hint.

“Did you puke?” he rubbed his temple tiredly.

Jillian simply nodded against the wall, unable to care how pathetic she looked, naked and sick on his bathroom floor.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” he mumbled and slipped back into the bedroom.

Her eyes fell shut again until she felt warm hands on her shoulders, slipping an old sweatshirt over her head. He was speaking again but her fuzzy head couldn’t process it, her head felt stuffed with cotton.

“Jillian, c’mon.”

Her eyes blinked open again. He was kneeling in front of her with red, tired eyes and worry lines. She watched the back of his hand come to rest against her forehead but she couldn’t do much else but blink.

“Lemme take you home, a’right?” Zayn’s voice sounded far away.

She nodded, unable to consider the consequences of showing up at her and Harry’s, horribly sick and in Zayn’s clothes.

“I think,” she mumbled tiredly, as his arm slipped under hers and around her back, “Maybe ‘m becoming alcohol intolerant.”

Zayn just snorted.

Considering her state, there wasn’t much room for tension or that awful awkwardness after a drunken, one night stand. He stepped right up to the plate as a good friend. Any doubts she’d had about Zayn actually enjoying her company or really having a budding friendship with him were squashed. Harry had been wrong.

He got her dressed, collected her things, even called a cab for the few blocks to her and Harry’s building. Her brain cleared enough to walk, nearly all of her weight supported by Zayn, but not enough to do much else. She just didn’t understand what was wrong. Sure, she’d been drunk, probably too drunk to fuck Zayn and definitely too drunk to drive, but it hadn’t been blackout drunk. She’d sobered up a bit on Zayn’s balcony, she remembered everything after that. She remembered the way his hands felt and the goosebumps on her skin. She shouldn’t have felt like she was near death the morning after.

But it had happened the past few times she’d gotten a little more than tipsy, so what else could it have been?

The elevator to her floor was quicker than Jillian remembered but didn’t help her constantly churning stomach. Relief flooded through her when they reached her door, pointed out by her shaky hands. Zayn knocked so quickly that she didn’t even have time to remember she’d forgotten her keys inside.

And then, there was silence.

“Jillian,” Zayn’s voice was still filled with worry but there was something underneath that she was too tired to read, “Is there any chance Harry isn’t home?”

“N-no,” she shook her head, because where else would he be? They shared everything. What friends did he have in the city that weren’t hers too?

So he knocked again, more harshly. And he kept knocking, louder and louder (though that may have just been Jillian’s head) until they heard the lock clicking in the door.

Zayn tensed next to her when the door flung open. There was Harry, looking more well rested than he had in weeks. If she hadn’t been so sick, Jillian was sure hatred would’ve been flowing through her veins.

“What the fuck, Jilly?”