The first time I met Grant, he was drunk and resting against the side of my father’s car.

Consumed with boredom, I had decided to leave another Saturday night party, and finish off the night with a book or a bath. As I passed by some other cars, I saw him there, his head hanging limp. There was vomit dripping from his lips, and he wasn’t moving. For a second I wondered if he was dead. Panic rose inside of me, wondering what I should do. As I shifted my weight, ready to run back into the park, I heard some stirring beside me.

“You’re pretty,” he slurred, reaching for something at his side. A bottle. I was quick to reach down and grab it from him. Looking around, I watched him confused, but he didn’t reach for it, or demand it back. He smiled goofily, attempting to push himself up. As he tumbled backwards, just missing the tires, I reached a hand forward. “Where am I?” He pressed, holding on to me for dear life, barely able to keep his footing. This was exact reason I didn’t drink.

“A party.”

He looked around, not understanding, “Huh?”

Later, as I drove him home—he was passed out on the back seat—I realized that I had no clue where Grant Peters lived. Turning back seemed stupid as the party was on the outskirts of town, so I just kept driving until I pulled into the parking lot of my own house, cutting the ignition. My younger sister, Abby, was sitting on the front porch reading when I drove up.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” I asked. Even though she was already fifteen, and a half, she was still the little girl that had come crying to me when he first boyfriend had pushed her down in the playground. Whenever I looked at her I saw innocence and youth.

“And shouldn’t you not bring home strange guys?” Glancing back towards the car, I watched Grant stumbling around “Oh my god,” the book dropped to Abby’s feet and she stared in his direction, “Is he drunk?” I could only bite my lip. “Not only are you bringing home strange guys,” she was lecturing me almost. I could hear my mother in her tone as she crossed her arms tightly over her chest, “But drunk strange guys.”

I nodded, “Yep.”

“Whatever,” she grabbed her book—the Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath—and turned to walk back into the house. She was taller then me, so much so it wasn’t crazy to believe she was the younger sister. “But you’re explaining it to dad when he walked in and finds him.”

That was just like Abby. She was great at giving lectures, but she didn’t understand about helping you out.

Walking back to where Grant once again was passed out—this time in the flowers—I lifted him up. “Oh pretty.” He smiled, struggling to walk with me. I knew it was stupid to be bringing home a practical stranger, but I couldn’t have left him leaning in the mud at the party. Someone there probably would have found him eventually. Dragging him into the basement, I dropped him against the bed. His head his side, and he winced slightly before passing out again. Mr. Wiggles, my cat, found me standing there in the darkness of the spare room. He had been found too, a tiny kitten sleeping down at the elementary school. Scooping him up, I had peddled home as quickly as possible. Mom hated the idea of another cat—we already had three—but dad said we couldn’t just leave him. Mr. Wiggles had been living with us ever since, my cat.

“What are you thinking about Em?”

Grant walked up behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. It was hard to believe that after everything, we were still dating. Had started dating in the first place. That night had been the first time I had seen him drunk, stumbling around, but it wouldn’t be the last. “Nothing,” My smiled was half hearted, but he didn’t notice it. His lips brushed my cheek, and I remembered then why I loved him. Why I couldn’t stop loving him.

“So what do you have planned for tonight?”

I closed the textbook, which had been lying open on my lap for far too long. In fifteen minutes, I had a history test that I knew I wasn’t ready for. Every time I tried to concentration, my mind wondered. “Actually,” I started,” Gemma and I were planning on going to see a movie.” His face soured, disappointment washing over it. Something had already been planned. “What?”

“Oh,” he started, “its just there is this party tonight and I was hoping we could go.” So that was what this was about. In the beginning I had trouble going to party after party with Grant, holding his hand, as he got drunk. He tried explaining to me why he did it, a couple months after we started dating and way too many drunken dates later. It was during his parents’ breakup that it started; he could go out with friends to parties and drink a little too much and forget about everything. His mother wasn’t leaving, his dad didn’t hit him, and everything was okay. After his mom left—and took him with her—it was just a habit, something he needed to relax. He assured me that whenever he wanted to stop, he could. He was young after all, this wouldn’t be the rest of his life. You couldn’t party forever.

“I don’t know,” I explained, feeling guilty for wanting to spend the night with Gemma. We hadn’t had a night in forever. But I was Grant’s ride to and home from these parties. If I wasn’t there he would end up with his face in the mud, and who knew what would happen then. “Its just Gemma really wants to spend time with me. It’s been a while.” I paused, knowing Grant would hate what was coming next, “Can’t you miss one little party?”

I regretted saying it, even before he started talking. “Come on Em, I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.” It was true. With AP Biology and Chemistry, not to mention working everyday after school. His mom had been laid off her job a couple months before, so he was practically paying for their apartment most months. Letting out a loud sigh, I wondered what to do. Gemma and I had been planning this girl’s night all week. She hated when people bailed on her.

“I’ll talk to Gemma, see if you wants to go to a party.”

He kissed my cheek, picking me up and swirling me around. I felt like a princess as he spun me, loved me.

“Thank you so much Em,” He kissed me hard, and I could see people staring at us as they walked by. They didn’t need to tell me how lucky I was, I already knew. I had known since the Monday after the party he showed up at my locker, thanked me for “rescuing” him, and asked me out. Grant Peters was popular, but without being a jock. He was romantic too, surprising me with flowers and a plum. “Chocolate,” he started laughing, “is just so cliché.” This side of Grant was so inviting, so comfortable and safe. I found myself drifting into him every time we were together. Falling in love with him. Something in the way he kissed me hard, never letting go until the last second. The way he was there whenever I needed him, hand out. I would fall into his arms and cry on his shoulder and feel like there was no other moment but the one we were living. Everything was perfect, I thought.

And then he got drunk.

“A party?” Gemma sighed, drumming her fingers against the library table. Like me, Gemma wasn’t excited by the idea of drinking with frat boys. Sure the occasional beer or rum and coke were okay, but full-fledged drunkenness was not something she enjoyed. In fact, she never stuck around a party long enough to even see the way Grant got when he had a few too many in him. “We had plans though. Serious plans,” As she paused she let out a loud sigh, “I filled the cupboards with baked chips and organic salsa. Do you know how much money I spent?”

The guilt was gnawing at me again. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” Gemma stood up, her chair loudly scraping against the linoleum floor. Our librarian Ms. Roe—who was a crusty old lady with the meanest eyes—stared in our direction but didn’t mutter a word. “When you’re done playing babysitter for your boyfriend, give me a call.” And then she was gone, leaving behind nothing but the smell of her perfume and a chewed up pen. She was pissed, and I knew I should have run after her, told her that girls night would go on as scheduled, but Grant needed me there. He needed me to watch him, and make sure nothing bad happened. He needed me there to bring him home and keep him company until morning. Even when he cursed, or got mad and said things he didn’t mean. He was Grant, and he loved and needed me. Without me, I knew there would be no one to help him.

And then drinking wasn’t so bad. Sometimes all he needed was a couple beers and his friends around. I could always tell what was on his mind from what he drank. If it was a couple beers, it just meant he wanted to relax and have some fun. A couple beers and some whiskey meant he was under stress, and he needed a little more relaxing than normal. And vodka. Vodka was like the red light flashing; danger. Something was up, and before the night was over he would be falling down drunk, and saying things he didn’t really mean. Whenever he drank vodka, the panic would rise up inside of me, and I would assure myself that in the morning everything would be back a normal. Sometimes, I even found myself knocking back beer myself. It burnt my tongue and tasted sour on my lips, but it relaxed me for when trouble came.

Grant was standing by his locker after classes. Walking up to him, his arm immediately wrapped around my waist, pulling me in. “Hi babe.” This gesture—everything about him—was almost enough for me to forget what I was about to say. Almost.

“Hey,” I started, “can we talk?”

After Gemma had run away, I knew exactly what I wanted to say, what I needed to say. “Sure.”

“About tonight.” People rushed by, barely noticing us standing there. Sometimes I wondered what people thought when they saw Grant falling down, and me trying to protect him from getting hurt. This was High School, and everyone had an opinion about something. “I really think I should spend tonight with Gemma,” he wasn’t smiling anymore, staring at me seriously. His eyes burned into my forehead as I looked down towards my shoes, “She just really needs to spend some time with me. Girl time. It’s been a really long time since we had the chance.”

Grant didn’t seem to understand what I was saying, “So tell her to come to the party then.”

“But—”

“Do you not understand?” Grant asked, his voice low and mean sounding. It was his vodka voice, the one that scared me. “I need you to be there. You and Gemma can hang out whenever the fuck you want.” I stepped back slightly, watching his voice light up. “I need you there.”

There were tears in my eyes, stinging, “Okay,” I sniffed, hoping they didn’t start falling. I hated crying in front of people I knew. “Okay, I’ll go.” The change in him, from scary to sweet, happened so quickly I wondered if those words had even been uttered. He wrapped his arms around me, taking me in. “I’m sorry.” The words came out even before I knew what I was apologizing for. Was it him I was speaking to, or Gemma, or even the person I had once been. I wasn’t tough, not by a long shot, but that Emmy never would have stood for this. But then again, that Emmy hadn’t been in love.

“I love you Em,” Grant whispered, never letting go.

---

I pulled up in front of Grant’s apartment, and waited. He didn’t like me going up. The first—and only—time I had gone to his house, his dad and showed up banging on the doors and demanding to be let in. His mother was gone out, and it was just the two of us, and the police had been called. After his dad was arrested, and the police were gone, he broke open his emergency vodka and proceeded to get drunk before my eyes. That time, even more so than the first time we had met, was the worst I’ve seen him. His face was motionless and the bottle sat empty beside him. Putting him to bed, I slipped out of the apartment hours before his mom returned home. We never talked about it again after that, and now, he just always spent time at our house.

I glanced down at the clock on the dashboard. He was running five minutes late. Sighing, I took a swig from a bottle of water.

The passenger side door opened, and Grant slipped in beside me. He had a half empty bottle of vodka in his hands, and stunk of something bitter and sweet. Weed. “Hi baby,” he smiled, leaning in to kiss me. Pulling away I stared at him in shock.

“You’re wasted.”

“Chill mom,” he laughed, leaning back into the cushion of the seat, “I just had some pre-party favors.” His mom must not of been home. I couldn’t see her beat up Volkswagen in the parking lot. Whenever he was alone things were bad. Maybe I lived in a sheltered world, but I couldn’t imagine drinking alone in your bedroom was a good thing.

“Let’s just go.” I sighed.

The house was located a five minute walk from my own house. When we got there, cars lined the streets and it took me ten minutes to find somewhere to park. By the time I made it inside Grant was mingling—vodka bottle almost always on the tip of his lips—and stumbling around. I found myself trying to figure out what had happened to make him want to reach for vodka. The stress wasn’t that bad, and all he needed was to relax. Then I remembered the hall after lunch and the way he reacted. I had made him do this; it was my fault. Slowly I made my way up to him, pulling on his shoulder.

“Can we talk?”

“Right now,” he was annoyed.

I bit my lip. “Please.”

The house was overrun with sweaty bodies, most of which blocked the walk outside. Pulling him over towards the neck, he knocked back another shot and I felt a chill run up my spine. It was as though he wanted me to know this was all my fault. Gently, I touched him hand, taking it in mine.

“I just wanted to say sorry,” I told him, “About this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?” he was swaying now.

“At school, by your locker. I shouldn’t have tried to ditch you and I’m sorry.” My hands reached out to grab the bottle. I had apologized so he could stop now. A couple beers and then we could go home. “You don’t need to drink vodka anymore. Everything is okay.”

He pushed me back, holding onto the bottle tightly. Grant’s face was hard and serious, not sweet at all. “Fuck Em,” he sighed, swigging from the bottle. I’m trying to relax, why are you being like this.” I didn’t understand what he was talking about, or what “being like this” meant. I was just trying to help him, like always. Vodka was the worst, and he knew that.

“I’ll get you a beer.” I pleaded, grabbing onto his arm.

He pushed me back again, this time sending me against the wall. I hit with a thud, feeling the brick scratch against my bare shoulder. He had never pushed me before, no matter how drunk he got. “Get off me bitch,” and then, with another shot, he walked back into the house leaving me standing out there. Suddenly the air felt chilly, too chilly. And tears welled in my eyes I couldn’t hold back. With eyes watching me, I fell to my knees and started crying. The air was sucked from my lungs and I felt myself suffocating. All I wanted was to make things easier for Grant—he had been through so much—but this was more then I could handle.

“I knew he would do this.”

I felt hands lifting me up even before I heard the familiar, and yet unfamiliar, voice. Gemma tugged on my shirt, lowering it over my waist, before wiping a falling tear away. “What are you doing here?” I asked surprised.

“The look on Grant’s face,” she was leading me through the party, and I could feel eyes watching me. By the time we got into the bathroom, I understood why. My face was puffy and swollen from crying. “I knew something was going to happen tonight.” Running a cloth under the water, she gently placed it against my cheek, “I don’t understand how you can stay with him Emmy,” her lip was quivering now, scared. “He needs help Em, he’s out of control.”

“He needs me.” I told her matter-of-factly, “I can help him.”

There were tears rolling down her cheeks now, “He’s not some stray kitten you found in the playground. Kisses and hugs aren’t going to make everything better.” I wondered, sitting there, how long she had felt like this. These words couldn’t have come out of nowhere.

“I can’t help him.” I repeated. He was probably falling down now, wondering where I was. I needed to find him; I needed to pick him up again. Jumping up from the toilet I walked towards the door. “I have to go find him.” My fingers grazed the doorknob, ready to run to his rescue, when Gemma pulled on me, pulling me back. Even with her good intentions, she didn’t understand everything. She only remembered the bad moments, and forgot the good. “Stop it.” I tried pushing Gemma away, but she was stronger than me.

“No.”

“I have to help him.”

Gemma just stood there in front of me, stared a second, and then shook her head. “I’m taking you home. You can’t help him, not like this. Every time you rush to his rescue you are just making things worse, just giving him another excuse to get drunk again.”

I wanted to argue, I wanted to tell her she was wrong and that I was helping, not hindering. But her eyes were dark with seriousness, and I couldn’t find the words. Gently she lifted me up, and we walked. Out of that bathroom, out of the house. The weight of the party was lifting from my shoulders, and I wondered for a second where it had came from, and where it was now.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Grant asked, appearing from nowhere. I was sitting in the passenger seat as Gemma started the ignition. He stood in the driver’s window, stumbling around, his vodka face staring in my direction. “Where are you taking Em?” He went to open the door, but Gemma had already locked the door. “What the fuck?”

“I’m taking Emmy home,” she told him, acid tongued, “She exhausted from picking up your mess.”

He went for the door again, not realizing there was no way in. I sat still in my seat watching him stumble to get in. “Em,” there was a shift in his face, something soft and terrified. I saw all his pain, and the reasons why he drank in the first place. He needed me; he needed me beside him, helping him. “Em, let me in. Baby I love you so much. Why are you doing this? Don’t you know that I need you?”

I could feel my hand reaching for the door.

“Emmy,” it was Gemma this time, her hand reaching out to hold back mine. She shook her head, and then—as Grant fell back into the damp grass—took off quickly. I could still hear him calling my name in the distance, and watched in the rearview mirror as he crashed against the curb. “Someone will take care of him,” Gemma told me, although I wasn’t really listening, “Someone will make sure he will get home okay.” I wanted to believe her, but I was all he had. I was his everything. He needed me to take care of him.

We pulled up in front of the house, and she cut the ignition.

“I’m coming in,” she told me strongly, unbuckling the seatbelt. It was strange to see Gemma so strong, so determined. Usually she was quiet and kept to herself. Even when she was mad at you, she didn’t say anything. A couple days of silence and then everything would be good again, and we laughed like normal. We’d been best friends since the beginning of middle school, through boys and broken hearts. But this was new, this was different, and she wasn’t holding back.

Sitting in my bedroom, I could hear the voices downstairs. Mom, Dad, and Gemma. The second we walked through the door, she had told them to get me upstairs, and that she wanted to talk to them, alone. Mom had looked confused, dad worried. Now I sat on the top of the stairs, overhearing conversation about me. “What’s going on?” It was Abby, walking from her bedroom to the stairs where I sat now, listening. Mom had tucked me in, like she had when I was a child, but I couldn’t sleep.

“Shhhh.” I whispered, craning my neck to hear the conversation better. They spoke quietly, as though they expecting me to be listening in. Not getting an answer from me, Abby walked over and took a seat on the stairs beside me. Once upon a time, I probably would have wanted to protect her, and told her to go back to bed. She was older now, mature. She was even driving, speeding through the world. So I let her sit beside me, listening in this secret conversation.

It was mom who spoke loudest. “Grant, her boyfriend? Are you sure? He’s such a good boy.”

“I was there.” She paused, taking in a breath before continuing. It seemed too strange not to be there with her. “And this wasn’t the first time. Every time he wanted to get drunk Emmy is there to wipe up his mess.” I wanted to run down and tell them “that’s how it is!” but then I would have had to admit it was half true. Gemma didn’t understand why Grant drank, just that he did.

“How bad is it?” Dad asked in a serious tone.

There was a pause. A long pause, which seemed to span minutes. I wondered for a second if someone had heard me up here, and that was why. “He pushed her tonight when she tried to get him to stop. And she just stood there and took it.” I bit my lip, wanting to scream out the truth. I had made him mad, stressed him out. I was the reason he was drinking tonight, and then he got mad because I tried to stop him. It was understandable. “I’m so scared he’s going to really hurt her.” Gemma sniffed then, and I realized that she was crying.

“We need to get him away from her.” Dad spoke matter-of-factly.

“I agree.”

Two seconds later they were standing at the stairs, looking up towards me. Even hearing the footsteps, I didn’t move, waiting for them to notice me there. “You don’t understand.” It was all I could say, with tears rushing down my cheeks. Grant needed me and I needed him. We were in this together. “I can help him.” Mr. Wiggles was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, purring between my father’s legs. Even his eyes seemed to stare towards me judgmentally. “I can help him.” I repeated again.

“Abby,” Dad warned, “Go back to bed.”

The four of us—Mom, Dad, me and Gemma—sat in the living room. Mom was stroking my hand and dad was talking on the phone. This was their intervention, their attempt at helping me. “You have to let him go.” Mom and Gemma kept repeating, and I would cry “no” every time through the tears that just kept flowing. Dad was on the phone, had been on the phone for twenty minutes, trying to get a hold of Grant’s mom. She wasn’t around, and I wasn’t surprised.

“Grant needs help.” Mom told me.

“I love him.”

“If he loved you,” Gemma told me, “Then he wouldn’t put you through this. If he loved you he would protect you.” I cried again, pushing both away. They didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand.

No one hear the sound of a speeding car, or noticed the headlights. The sound of the car plowing through our kitchen, knocking down the wall, filled our ears. I felt my mother wrap her arms around my body, protecting me. Pictures fell from the wall, the glass smashing in a heap against the carpet. The car, still running, sat silently in the kitchen.

“Stay here.” Dad warned, tossing the phone towards mom, “Call an ambulance. Now.”

And then I recognized the face staring in my direction. It was the same face that had looked up towards me that summer night, telling me I was pretty. Pushing into the kitchen, glass cut the bottom of my feet. The passenger side door was open, and I slowly and carefully climbed into the seat beside Grant. He was covered in blood and dust. His cheek was sliced open, and bleeding profusely. Ripping off my jacket, I gently held it against him.

“Grant…”

“Oh Em,” he coughed slightly, moving uncomfortably. His arm was hanging loose, broken. “Why’d you have to leave me? Look what happened.” Dropping my hand from his cheek, I felt my body seize. All I ever did was try to help him. I loved him. How could he blame this on me?

“Emmy,” it was my dad, pulling on my arm. “Get out of the car.”

“Em.” Grant stared at me, “Don’t leave me again.”

Slowly and carefully, I moved towards the opening of the car. There were sirens getting closer and closer to the house. The police, an ambulance. They could help Grant, they would help him. “Don’t worry,” I whispered, still sliding out of the car. My feet left a faint trail of blood on the seat. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“If you loved me,” he coughed again, “you wouldn’t leave me. Everyone leaves me. Look what you made me do.”

Tears rushed down my cheeks as my father carried me towards the living room. A police officer rushed past us, into the mess of our kitchen. Mom wrapped her arms around me, hugging me. I could hear her mumbling something, but couldn’t make it out. The police officer walked back into the living room, up to my father. He was going to help Grant, right?

“Do you know this boy?” He asked.

Stepping forward, I limped towards them. “He’s my boyfriend. This is all my fault. I left him at this party and he was mad at me so he got drunk. He only gets drunk when he’s mad, or needs to relax, or is under a lot of stress. And I put him under all this stress.” The words were spilling out, filling the room. “I should have saved. I should have saved him. This is all my fault.”

The officer stepped forward, putting a strong hand on my shoulder. It seemed out of character. “This isn’t your fault.”

“Yes,” I protested, feeling myself crying again. “I couldn’t save him. I was trying, and I just… I didn’t stay, I didn’t protect him like I should of.” Suddenly, the words felt funny, like a story you couldn’t tell without laughing. I stared towards the car; they were carrying Grant into the living room now. He looked towards the ceiling until I stepped forward.

“Em,” he smiled.

Everything rushed through my head then. I remembered the first drunken night, and every night in-between. The vodka, and the flowers; the kisses and the names. Everything he had put me through because he “needed to relax”. I remembered nights of driving around until I found him, curled up with a bottle in hand. I wanted to save him, to scoop him up and rush him home, and keep him safe forever.

“Em,” Grant stared towards me. “I love you.”

Those three words—home many times had he whispered them in my ear. The first time had been after he was drunk. It was always his excuse. He loved me. He needed me. I was the only person who understood.

“I love you,” I whispered, tears falling down against his bloody clothing and dusty face. “But I can’t love you to death.” Stepping back, they carried him away. His voice screamed my name, and my hands covered my ears so I didn’t have to hear. I couldn’t do this, not anymore.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Gemma told me, holding my hand tight. The words were comforting, but I had long forgotten what it meant to be okay. Watching the flashing lights pull away, the sound of the siren, I wondered what came next. Grant was everything, and yet, it hadn’t been enough. I wasn’t enough. Vodka wasn’t enough. Standing there, I wondered what came next.

And when morning would come.