The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

A compelling urge to flee and seek solitude overcame me. I was in over my head, frozen in place and unable to think clearly, struggling to stay afloat in the sea of unfamiliar faces and fast-paced conversations.

The prospect of navigating the vibrant living room and participating in dance—on coffee tables with half-dressed women, I might add—to the tumultuous melodies with indecipherable lyrics was unappealing, especially given my limited alcohol consumption.

This discomfort was not anomalous but rather a recurring theme throughout the evening, as the genre of heavy rock being played was beyond the scope of my typical musical repertoire.

An entire catalogue of recreational drugs was available for purchase, although I had no interest in consuming hallucinogens or dried herbs. I could not think of anything more abhorrent. However, many individuals disagreed with me, as they snorted lines of cocaine on the kitchen counters and smoked purple haze until they lost consciousness.

Even as I tried to enjoy myself with Connie and Rayan, dancing between bathroom breaks, I non-stop thought about Hannah.

My best friend would love to be here, laughing and dancing with us. I was tempted to text her and ask if she could sneak out and meet me, but I knew that would only cause more problems with her husband. He could be sitting right next to her, watching her phone like a hawk.

Hannah would do anything to spend time with her brother, Drew. It's not often they get to see each other. And, here he is, the life and soul of the party, dressed in grey tracksuit bottoms, stark white trainers to match his neatly ironed T-shirt and a red snapback cap worn backwards. He was surrounded by women and men, friends and bedmates, chortling and wisecracking, knocking back shot after shot, but I know he would trade each and every single one of them to have his sister by his side.

My preoccupation with observing the clock as it progressed past midnight might be considered peculiar to any onlooker, but I was obsessed with seeing Royce tonight. I wondered whether he had concluded occupational duties yet.

It was my understanding that he was likely aiding Mac in the end-of-the-day tasks. Despite this rationale, I dwelled on his return, pondering whether to address him immediately upon his arrival or to feign obliviousness until he initiated a conversation.

Royce failed to emerge by the chimes of one, two, or three o'clock, and by the time four came and went, and most of the guests had departed, leaving only a handful to clear the remaining alcohol at the makeshift bar, I was growing increasingly anxious, contemplating the possibility of some unfortunate mishap.

Connie's house was a mess. Empty bottles of beer and wine were scattered everywhere, like the aftermath of a hurricane. Furniture, floors, and window sills were all covered in a sticky film of spilt alcohol. Ashtrays overflowed with lipstick-stained cigarette butts. Half-eaten barbecue food sat in plastic containers, abandoned on the ground. Discarded clothes littered the floor. It was a war zone—a disrespect.

Further imbibing would be futile, given my sobriety throughout the evening, no matter how many shots I swallowed. I decided to make myself useful, or rather, to alleviate her stress tomorrow by giving the place a quick spruce.

Commencing with the living room, I gathered all the clothes strewn about the floor, sofas, stairs, and bathroom and dumped them in the laundry hamper for tomorrow's cleaning. I was unsure whether she was in the habit of washing other people's clothes after parties, but I could not think of a more appropriate solution.

Grabbing a roll of bin liners, I collected the rubbish, bottles, and containers around the room and emptied the ashtrays. I carefully knotted each bag and placed them by the living room door, ready to be taken out.