Free Dave: Junior Year (Three Daves #2) by Nicki Elson

of the parking lot lamps caught her straight in the eye, throwing off her equilibrium. Without warning, a boiling cauldron of bile rushed up her esophagus and out of her mouth. She spewed the rancid contents of her stomach all over the body belonging to the voice.
    “Aw, nasty!” the voice shouted.
    Jen’s throat burned. A light breeze blew toward her, bringing with it the pungent aroma of her vomit. She fell to her hands and knees on the rough asphalt and coughed. Her mouth filled with saliva. She stayed prostrate, spitting on the ground and fighting not to collapse.
    “Fuckin’ hell!” the voice yelled as it faded away in the distance.
    Jen felt hands on both of her arms pull her up.
    “Oh, sweetie,” said a sympathetic voice that sounded familiar. Kate.
    “Yeah, you better get the fuck out of here!” shouted another familiar voice. Maria.
    “Asshole!” screeched another, followed by the sound of something flying through the air and clattering to the ground in the distance. Chris.
    Someone said, “Let’s get you home.”
    The next thing Jen was aware of was a wicked vice squeezing her skull the following morning. She winced as she gingerly walked down the hall to the kitchen to take ibuprofen and gulp down a huge glass of water. Her body felt vaguely sore all over. At least her stomach didn’t feel too bad. Vomiting the night before had rid her body of most of the poisons. Still, she chewed on a chalky, cherry flavored antacid. Padding into the living room, she collapsed onto the armchair and stayed there for the rest of the day, lacking the energy to mourn Dave.

Chapter 8
    Despite the nasty hangovers and embarrassing public behavior, Jen kept the party rolling over the next few weeks. She didn’t go out every night, but often enough. After the episode at the Ritz, she avoided shots and no longer accepted drinks from strange men, but she still managed to get pretty ridiculous. Why have one drink when she could have ten?
    Her initial buzz usually led her into one of three directions—either she’d feel stupid for having thought that Dave actually liked her, or she’d get angry at Dave for using her and at herself for letting him, or worst of all, she’d scan the bar, willing Dave to appear and beam a smile at her and explain that it had all been a misunderstanding. She’d then pound several more drinks in an effort to kill whichever of these moods had struck her. Even though the alcohol only exacerbated whatever she was feeling, and even though she’d often end up dissolved into a pile of nonsensical tears at the end of the evening, she’d repeat the process the very next time she went out.
    During a sober moment after class one day, Jen crossed paths with Tom in the hallway of her apartment building. He huffed past her and barely grumbled a hello. When she stepped into the apartment, Maria stood by the kitchen counter with swollen eyes.
    “What’s wrong?” Jen asked.
    “Nothing,” Maria said in a higher pitch than usual. “Allergies. I’m going to go lay down for a while.” She disappeared into her room, slamming the door shut.
    Jen wondered if she should go after her, but then noticed her roommate’s iPad on the counter. The screen was on and across it was an image from the girls’ spring break trip the previous year. It was of Maria in a cozy—and incriminating—position with Mr. Margarita, the hottie she’d hooked up with in Daytona. Jen flicked through more pictures: Maria leaning against him; him with his iron arms wrapped around her shoulders; Maria rubbing lotion into his perfect pectorals.
    Jen wondered why Maria would’ve kept the pictures at all, much less in a place so easily discoverable. Poor Tom, Jen thought. As far as she knew, Maria had told the truth when she’d said Mr. Margarita was a final fling. Though an incurable flirt, she’d been faithful to her boyfriend except for that one time. Jen didn’t see anything to gain by Tom finding out about this now, a year after