“Skye?” I call out.
There’s no response.
My heart thumps against my chest, almost painfully. I head toward the bedroom and find it locked.
“Skye, open the door!” I command, trying to control the panic in my voice.
When she doesn’t answer, I throw my shoulder into the door and find her on the bed, her head lolling to the side. A near-empty bottle of vodka stands on the bedside table. I scoop her into my arms and brush the dark strands of hair from her flushed cheeks. She groans against my touch. I take a deep breath for the first time since I walked into the apartment.
“Wake up, Skye.” I tap her face with my hand.
She stirs awake, her blue eyes flashing up at me. I pull her closer and hug her. Her body tenses at my affection. After I help her sit, I pull away from her to give her the space she needs.
“How much did you drink?” My tone is unintentionally paternal.
“Just a little . . .” The slow words tumble over her lips.
“This isn’t a little.” I gesture toward her. “Did you eat before you drank? Did you eat at all today?”
She closes her eyes. “I just want to sleep.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen.” I grab her arm. “You’re going to take a nice, cold, sobering shower.”
When she doesn’t budge, I pick her up, carry her to the bathroom, and sit her on the toilet lid. She lets out a groan. I turn on the cold water. Nothing seems to lower your BAC faster than a frigid shower. I grab the hem of her shirt, and her eyes pop open. She pushes my hands away and snatches the fabric back in place.
“Don’t,” she says, her face paling with fear.
“I’m sorry, Skye. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I don’t want you to see my body.” She tries to stand, but she stumbles back onto the toilet.
I squat down and look into her eyes. “That’s fine. Can you please take a cool shower? I’ll leave.”
She gives a slow nod, and I leave her alone in the bathroom to shower.
“Yell if you need me,” I tell her as I shut the door.
Back in the bedroom, I lift the vodka, trying to remember how much had been in the bottle. The liquor just blurs together in my mind, so fuck if I know. This could have been full or nearly empty. I twist off the top and down what’s left.
I step back into the hallway. “This isn’t over,” I whisper toward the bathroom door, shaking the bottle in my hand. I never thought I’d have to scold someone. I need to figure out what to say that doesn’t make me sound like a goddamn hypocrite.