"Bro, how the fuck did you do that?" Chase yells over the music. I just laugh and continue to move my fingers over the controller, flicking and pressing the keys as fast as I can to ensure a victory. Chase's girl walks in the room stopping about a few inches from my left foot. She's hovering, telling me she's about to ask me for a favor, "Uh Taylor, I think some girl is here to see you? Or at least I thought I heard her yelling your name through the door."

She plops down on Chase's lap as he grumbles something and ducks his head to the right to not lose his view of the screen. I ignore her comment until I hear something hit the front door. The rest of the guys continue to play and drink, the music so loud the thump was barely audible.

I look through the peephole but don't see anything. I turn the knob and open the door, but there isn't anything there. A noise coming from the right side of the porch catches my attention.

There, sitting with her back against the house and legs stretched out on the concrete railing is Camryn Quinn with a brown paper bag in her hand. The fingers of her left hand curled around the neck of a bottle. She slowly lifts it to her lips, taking a long pull before resting it back in her lap. I do a double take to make sure I'm not seeing things. I clear my throat into the darkness, hoping to get her attention. She doesn't seem to hear me, or if she does she doesn't acknowledge me.

"Camryn?" I say into the darkness.

"So he is home," she says, barely turning her head in my direction while taking another sip from the bag.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I ask, more out of confusion than curiosity.

"Hmm, what the fuck am I doing? I'm just havin' myself a little drinky drink," She slurs and lifts the bag in my direction. "I would offer you some, but–well then there wouldn't be more for me."

When she brings the bottle back to her lips, the porch light reflects off her face. I can see that her eyes are completely glossed over. Not only did she come here looking for me, but she is piss-ass drunk.

When I left her at the museum the other night she seemed upset, sure, but not the kind of upset that would lead to this. I've never seen her drink like this, or drink more than a single beer or shot the few times I've been around her in that type of setting. I'm concerned more than anything at how this happened, about how she managed to get here. But I'm equally concerned about why she's here. She pretty much told me to go fuck myself the last time I saw her. I figured the next time would be at the tutoring center and would hold a strong case of the silent treatment.

She begins to try to move herself, but the hand she plants underneath of her bottom to stand up quickly misses the railing and falls to her side. I walk towards her now because I'm worried with one wrong move she will tumble off the side of the porch.

"Why are you here and why are you drinking? You don't drink?" I ask.

"You know what I love?" she says ignoring my questions. I don't respond, instead I just watch her.

"I love the way the sky looks after it rains. When all the clouds clear out and you can almost see a few stars even though we're in the city which is usually impossible."

I almost ask what the fuck is going on again, but don't. I get the sense she just needs someone to listen, so I sit across from her. Our feet touch at the ends of our outstretched legs.

I gesture towards the bag, hoping the alcohol has already made her forget that she didn't want to share. It must, because she hands it to me anyway. I just wanted to get it away from her to keep whatever is happening from getting worse, but I take my opportunity to take a drink. The vodka is cheap and tastes like shit but I swallow it down anyways.

"I used to think that the stars were heaven," She says pointing a finger into the sky as if picking out one specific star before continuing, "when I was younger, I thought that the stars were the house lights of the people in heaven. I would climb out of my window and lay on the roof for hours just watching them, imagining the stories of people in heaven and what they were doing up there in their houses. Normal stuff like watching their favorite show or dancing hand in hand with the familiar faces they had been reunited with. Each story ended the same though, with them looking down and watching us on earth like a home movie. A reality from a different time unfolding in front of them. I used to wish I was up there, doing my favorite things in my shiny house, baking a chocolate cake."

"Because chocolate cake is the best?" I ask.

"Of course, and because that was what—" Camryn stops and closes her eyes. It's so dark that I can barely see her eyes, but I do see the glimmer of a tear run down her face. A hand moves quickly to swipe it away before falling back into her lap.

"Camryn, you can tell me."

"Can we make a chocolate cake?" When she finally speaks, it comes out like the voice of a little girl. I should call Cal. Camryn obviously needs someone to take care of her, but maybe she went to his place first and he wasn't home.

"A chocolate ca—"

"A chocolate cake with chocolate icing," she interrupts, lunging off of the porch and into the street in what seems like the blink of an eye. No one is faster than a drunk girl on a mission. I sit the bottle down and run after her, using my arm to scoop her onto the sidewalk and out of the street.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"To get what we need!" Her voice is raised as she turns and places her palms on my chest. She yells again, as if I should know exactly what she's talking about. She moves in closer and breathes in deeply. She's smelling me and I want to call her out, but a smile fills her face when she exhales. I can't control the smile that fills my face too, instead I play along.

"What do we need?"

"For the cake! Keep Up Cowboy!" I can't tell if she means to keep up with her thoughts or literally. She's now walking down the sidewalk. Her speed seems to increase one mile per hour with each couple of steps she takes. I want to tell her that I can't keep up because I have literally no idea what is happening. This Camryn is different. Drunk, manic, loose. The opposite of the calculated Camryn I see every other time I have interacted with her, including the last time I saw her. I pull on her arm trying to bring her to a halt. She's like pinball shooting into me, ricocheting and then taking right off in a different direction. Thank god I didn't let go of her arm.

"Camryn, stop. Talk to me. Please." I steady her again, but this time her arms stay to her side. I slide my hands from her shoulders down her arms until I'm holding her hands in mine. They're cold and she doesn't pull away when I begin to run my thumbs over the backs of them in an attempt to warm them up.

"But...cake," she whines.

"We will make cake, but I need to know why we have to make cake right now. At eleven thirty on a Tuesday night." I need to know why you showed up on my doorstep, of all people, I want to ask. She doesn't answer, instead she looks down at her feet. I hear her sniff.

"Because the doctor says chocolate cake cures all." Her voice is shaky, but she finds my eyes as she says it. Again, I feel as if Camryn has shrunk right in front of my eyes into a much younger version of herself. I'm still not sure what is going on, but I don't think I need to. I need to get her home and to bed before the hangover sets in. She refuses however, until I agree to finish the walk to the store on the corner. She doesn't stop until we've paid for our baking supplies and are on our way back in the direction we came.

We make it back to my house and find it empty. Everyone probably headed out for one dollar shots at The Union, which is exactly where I planned to be tonight. I open the door with one hand, the other hand holding a bag filled with a boxed cake mix and icing, and on to the hand of Camryn who hasn't stopped talking since I finally agreed to the cake. She isn't really talking about anything though, it's almost as if she is just verbalizing her stream of consciousness.

"When did it get so cold? I swear to god my nipples could cut glass right now. Ugh I'm going to have to start wearing a bra again," she spews. I bite back my laugh because I don't want it to end, but also because I need to stop picturing her hard nipples. Still arm in arm, we walk down the hallway to the back of the house where the kitchen sits.

Camryn leans against the counter and begins reading the back of the cake box, "Why must they use the world's tiniest font on this box? I have no idea— ah here we go, pictures. Way more user friendly."

She walks across the room to the fridge and swings the door open so hard I lunge forward to grab it before it has a chance to smash against the cabinets behind it. I continue to watch her as she moves. She's walking around my kitchen like she owns it, like she's been here before. She doesn't seem to notice, or if she does, she continues with her cake making plan anyways.

She moves back to the counter, eggs in hand and continues the process. Her curly hair isn't in its usual well kept pattern flowing down her back, instead it's tied into a knot on the top of her head. I watch the bun bobble with every exaggerated movement her intoxicated body makes. I see now, the dried smudges of mascara under her eyes, telling me that she's been crying more than the few tears on the porch.

The only semblance of the normal Camryn are the signature loose fitting jeans and converse. Even her sweatshirt isn't one I remember from her rotation of outfits. This one looks as if she got it at Goodwill only after someone had worn and washed it a few hundreds of times before getting rid of it. I think it used to be mustard yellow, but has faded into a dingy yellow gray color. The elastic is completely stretched out of the cuffs and waistband, and it has singe marks on the right sleeve as if at one point it was set on fire.

Camryn opens every drawer in search of a measuring cup, but when she doesn't find one she settles for the protein powder scoop she finds in the last one. "This has to be about a fourth of a cup right?" She doesn't wait for my response before she begins measuring and dumping. I feel as if I haven't said much since she showed up on my porch an hour ago, but I don't think she wants me to. From the way she keeps answering her own questions, moving about things as if I'm not even here.

Her hand is shaking as she continues to measure the oil. She's about to spill it when I take her hands in mine, helping her to finish the process. I ignore the way her breath catches, chalking it up to the alcohol affecting her motor skills. We finish the cake process in silence, but together. My hands over hers, moving as one as we crack the eggs, add the water, and mix with a spoon because in a house full of guys baking spatulas are nonexistent.

It's intimate, and as I put the foil cake pan we bought into the oven I already miss the closeness. I set a timer on my phone and then take Camryn's hand and lead her back to the living room. She doesn't protest and sensing her coming down from the high she was on when she got here I take my opportunity to strike.

"So, uhm, do you want to explain what's going on?" I ask. I search her face for any clues as I do. She bites the inside of her cheek, pursing her lips in a way that makes me want to reach out and bite them with my own. I curse at myself for looking at this vulnerable girl and only thinking about her lips. Fuck, maybe she was right about me.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"For what?" I ask.

"For all kinds of things, Cowboy. I just—words are hard," she tries. I smile at her nickname for me and the way she's shaking her head as she says it.

"Hit me with what you've got, Capt." I offer, just urging her to share something, anything to tune me into her, to why the night turned out like this.

"For... showing up here, all crazy and drunk and you're right I don't drink. I don't know what I was thinking because now I just feel even shittier than I did. I didn't know it was possible, but it is. So you can revel in the fact that you have now seen me in shame. You can use it against me, advertise it to whoever. Camryn Quinn shows up to a guys house shamefully drunk because she once again can't fucking cope with her feelings." She's out of breath by the time she finishes. She's looking down and pulling at the skin around her thumb nail. A habit I've noticed she does when she's nervous.

I realize I am in way over my head and have no fucking idea what to do. I really should call Cal but it's late, and a Tuesday. I know he's either asleep or at the bar with my roommates. I can't keep sitting here in silence or she really is going to lose her shit. I take a play from my mom's book, using her cure for all, "Do you want to watch a movie?" Camryn nods like a little child standing at the edge of their parents bed after seeing a monster in their room. I hand her the remote and let her scroll but she quickly settles on Finding Nemo.

The timer on my phone begins to buzz cutting me off and I say a thank you to the lord for saving me from crashing and burning at girl talk. I pull the cake out of the oven having no idea if it's done. I look for signs of raw batter and turn the oven off when I don't see any.

I walk back to the living room to let Camryn know it's time to decorate this sad chocolate cake, only to find her head leaned back against the couch cushion fast asleep. Small snores are coming from her mouth each time she breathes in. I look towards the screen. Nemo hasn't even left for his first day of school yet.

I can't leave her here because Chase, Anderson and everyone will be back soon and I don't feel like answering the 'who' and 'why' questions. I lean forward and scoop Camryn's body into my arms. She doesn't even stir, just simply shifts her head to lean against my chest. I breathe in the scent of her familiar coconut shampoo that fills the tutor room every time she washes her hair.

I carefully carry her up the stairs, doing my best to avoid the walls. I use my back to push the door to my room open. I lay her on top of my comforter and try to remember the last time I washed my sheets. Hopefully she's too drunk to care or remember in the morning. I pull off her converse one at a time before grabbing the extra blanket I keep in my closet. I slowly cover her entire body with it while I find myself wondering if she is a hot or cold sleeper, and if she will eventually reposition her body from her side to her stomach. I decided to not take any chances and prop her up by a pillow. That way if she vomits in her sleep I can at least know she won't choke and die.

When I finally step back I study her, she looks so peaceful. So different than when she first got here. Did I have any part in that? In the way I could see the tension physically release from her body as we moved through our night together? I curse at myself for even having those thoughts. I shouldn't be having any thoughts about her, or any part I might play. The only thing I need to think about in regards to Camryn is when I tell Cal each week that she hasn't murdered anyone, that she's fine. Except she isn't fine.

The Camryn that showed up tonight isn't okay. Is this the problem that Cal mentioned? I imagined he was fucking with me. I figured he was over exaggerating her need to be looked after, that in their family his brotherly role took a different shape than in mine. After tonight though, maybe this is the behavior he was warning me about. This could be the behavior he wanted me to report back to him.

I reach beside her to grab the extra pillow to make a pallet on the floor next to her. A little rumble of words escape her lips. I freeze, hoping that if I become a statue she will simply go back to sleep and forget that I'm here. She doesn't though, because she quickly adds a coherent thank you. Only then does she quickly fall back into a deep sleep, the pattern of her snoring continuing. "You're welcome," I whisper back, because I don't know what else to say.