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possibly suck more than it does now. And all I can think is why the heck didn’t anyone talk me out of going to that stupid bar?
    *
    I pull her bedroom door closed behind me, leaving it cracked just a little just in case— in case, what? —and walk into the living room, bumping my leg on something sharp in the hallway. It turns out to be a table, and I’ve smeared vomit all over it now. Finding it hard to care, I go in search of a towel, locating one lying on the porcelain kitchen sink next to a box of handy wipes and two bottles of Germ-X. I reach for the towel and wet it, and as I swipe it across my jeans, all I can think is that any minute now her roommate might show up and call the police. I could be arrested for breaking and entering, and since I have a prior record the excuse But I used the key I pilfered from her purse probably will not get me out of trouble. All the talking in the world would likely wind up with me locked in an eight-by-eight cell.
    But I just don’t care. Her friends left her at the bar. Abandoned her drunk and drugged. Entrusted her with a guy she’d never met. A guy who would have taken advantage of her in five more minutes if he’d been given the smallest chance. They left her, and I find myself hoping each one of them will walk in just so I can yell at them in person.
    Seriously, why are some girls so stupid?
    I pump soap into my hands and scrub them together, then flip the water off and shake them out, trying to decide what to do. Patting them on my backside, I survey the room, looking for an answer. Staying seems to be the worst option, but the girl has already thrown up once. What if she begins again? Or what if the guy at the bar slipped her more drugs than I think, and she…tries to jump out her window? Or hangs herself with an extension cord from her ceiling rafter? I have no idea if date rape drugs make a person delusional, or suicidal, but I sure don’t want to read about her self-inflicted death in tomorrow’s paper. I can’t have that on my conscience, especially when Matt, Jordon, and Scott know I’m here.
    And my concern has absolutely nothing to do with those blond ringlets I can still feel gliding through my hand. Or the butterscotch kiss that still lingers on my lips.
    This is about her safety.
    This is about her—
    “What the heck?” My gaze lands on her white wicker bookcase. More specifically, on the rows of thin, worn cardboard lining the bottom three shelves in vertical rows. I don’t need to see the sleek turntable planted above them to know exactly what I’m looking at, and my pulse picks up speed. By the time I kneel down to examine them more closely, my pulse is at a full-out sprint. Her record collection is mind-blowing. I flip through indie bands like Bon Iver, Sleeping with Sirens, The Civil Wars, The Lumineers. Classics like Buddy Holly, Etta James, Elvis, The Beatles. The ridiculous like Wham!, Wang Chung, The Bee Gees, the soundtrack for The Breakfast Club . They go on and on. The name Kathryn darts out at me repeatedly, her name written in black Sharpie on the top left corner of each album.
    Kathryn. Kathryn’s records.
    Kathryn’s LP’s and forty-fives. Dozens of them. Hundreds. All alphabetized and categorized by genre. By size. From left to right in descending order. I can almost see her kneeling on the floor, painstakingly organizing each one until they all flowed together to offer easy access. I glance at the still open bedroom door, my mind drifting to the girl on the bed—Kathryn—currently knocked out and lying in the leftover remains of what looked like tuna on wheat.
    But never mind all that. Kathryn what’s-her-name has the coolest record collection I’ve ever seen.
    I should know. I have many of these same albums at home. But not all of them. Some are way too expensive for a person living on my salary.
    I’d like nothing more than to sit here for a few more hours and stoke my jealousy, but I can’t. I feel like a stalker for