I wake up in the morning with an uncomfortable burning in my belly and Hartley's arm snaked tight around my middle. Her curly blonde head is nuzzled in the crook of my neck.

Sometime in the middle of the night, she'd held my hair back as I threw up the alcohol—and whatever else I'd consumed during the day—in the bathroom across the hall, praying Penny or Jolie didn't wake up and overhear. They'd been in bed when we walked home from Melanie's, their TV leaking noises between the cracked bedroom door.

The room is still spinning, images of Hartley's belongings lagging like they're on a delay every time I move my head. Sunlight is too bright. Birds tweeting outside the window too loud. I don't know why I thought downing that vodka would make me forget. In the cruel light of day, I'm not only thinking about my parents, but I'm obsessing over the complete ass I made of myself, too. In front of Sully, no less.

I smack my lips together, my tongue dry and fuzzy as it moves around my mouth. A gurgling noise erupts from the pit of my stomach.

Without waiting to see what it means, I hop out of bed, yank open Hartley's door, and bound into the bathroom, my arms hugging the toilet bowl as the churning begins. I spend the next several minutes dry-heaving over royal blue toilet water from the cleaning packet Hartley dropped in the tank last week. It reminds me of Melanie's fiber optic pool lights which only makes me gag harder.

When I'm satisfied there's nothing left, I plod back to the bedroom, ignoring the bathroom mirror on the way. Hartley's sitting on the edge of her bed fully dressed. Her hands push through her tangled curls, her eyes still droopy with sleep.

She gives me a sympathetic smile. "How do you feel?"

I sink into the space beside her. "Not good. I think my liver hates me."

"Well, I still love you. And really," her shoulder nudges mine, "you didn't have that much to drink. This could be so much worse."

"I'm sure. But I promised myself I wouldn't drink at all and I did. It doesn't trust me anymore."

"Livers aren't supposed to trust you. They're supposed to produce bile and proteins and a bunch of other stuff I refuse to remember because it's summer vacation and I don't want to think about school." She sucks in a breath. "Besides, you needed to let loose. You've been keeping too much bottled up."

"Throwing up all over your bathroom is not my idea of letting loose."

She cocks her head. "Maybe not. But it's a start. You know what today is, don't you?"

I shake my head.

"It's my first morning working at Lady Bijou's."

My shoulders slump forward, any energy I had left seeping out my pores. "I completely forgot."

"You're still going with me, right?"

"I want to, but I really feel like sh—"

"You're the best!" she interrupts, hooking her arm around my neck. "Why don't you hop in the shower and I'll make breakfast? I'll clean up when we get back. There's no telling what kind of gross things he's going to make me do."

Half an hour later I'm only feeling slightly better. I force my lazy muscles down the stairs and into a kitchen chair. The house is silent, other than the sound Hartley flitting back and forth between the refrigerator, sink, and microwave. "Where's your mom and Jolie?"

"They always spend Saturday mornings at the farmer's market in the Warehouse District. They do a lot of their grocery shopping there. Plus, there are food demonstrations where you get to meet local chefs."

She pushes a plate in front of me and once again, my insides twist. "What is this?"

"Leftover sweet potato casserole."

"Are you having some?"

"I already did."

I sniff the air and bite my lip. "I think I'm going to pass."

She shrugs. "It's your hangover. But I think you'd feel better if you had something in your stomach."

I push the plate away, the smell obstructing my throat. "I'll take my chances."

I hate to admit it, but the walk to Bourbon Street is a refreshing one. The sky is a perfect cloudless blue and the temperature is actually pleasant. A gentle breeze rolls in off the river, bringing with it the sounds of ferry boats from somewhere in the distance. The wind blows tendrils of hair around my face and the sun shines on my cheeks, and for a minute I forget how crappy I feel.

When we make it to Lady Bijou's, we let ourselves in through the back door. Bastian is tinkering around in the dressing room. With his fitted gray T-shirt and khaki shorts, his black hair tousled and lips full and pouty, he looks more like the handsome lead singer of a boy band than drag queen extraordinaire. "Good morning, ladies!" His smile abruptly fades. "Uh-oh. What do we have here?"

Hartley beats me to a response. "Gwen has a massive hangover."

His dark eyes swivel toward me. "Gwen?"

All I can do is shrug.

"Oh, my. This is unexpected." Is it just me or does he seem disappointed? He tosses Hartley a pair of yellow rubber gloves. "Are you ready to work?"

She wrinkles her nose. "What are these for?"

"Well, they're not for whistlin' Dixie!" He laughs. "How about you start in the men's bathroom? Everything you need is waiting for you there. It's probably the most repulsive room in this joint, so anything you do after that will seem like a piece of cake."

"You've got to be kidding me." Hartley's jaw drops. "Sell it to me, why don't you."

"Or, you don't have to do this at all. You can find another way to pay off your debt."

Hartley thinks for a moment and then spins on her heel, her perky ponytail bouncing up and down behind her. Once she's out of earshot, Bastian turns to me, an unreadable expression on his face. "Care to have a seat?" He gestures to a nearby table with two chairs, the frame glossy black and ultra-stylish.

I plop down as he takes a seat across from me. "Do you want to talk about it?" I shake my head and he arches a brow. "You might feel better."

I know I'm acting like a moody teenager, but that's exactly how I feel. Bad-tempered and sulky, filled with too many feelings and raw emotions to bother opening my mouth.

"Speaking of feeling better, I bet you haven't eaten yet, have you?"

My eyes flick to the floor.

"That's what I thought. I'll be right back."

A few minutes later, he reappears with a ceramic bowl. "Homemade chicken noodle soup. Or as I like to call it: Nectar of the Gods." He places the dish in front of me, a silver spoon clanking against the rim. "It's the perfect cure for a Friday night hangover. So, come on. Eat up."

I stare down at the thick noodles and delicate chunks of chicken and carrots swimming in a glistening golden broth. My mouth waters. "Thank you," I mumble, and slurp a spoonful into my mouth. It's so delicious and feels just right as it gathers in the hollow of my stomach. I continue to chew and slurp until it's gone.

Bastian leans back in his chair and smiles. "Better?"

And you know what? I do feel better. So, I nod.

"Good. Now, why don't you tell me what happened."

And before I know it, the events of the night before come pouring out. I tell him about Nick and how I can't stand him, I tell him about sneaking into the haunted plantation and what we experienced while we were there. I tell him about going to Melanie's house even though they were out of town and how excited and terrified I was to finally be alone with Sully. And then I tell him how it all came crashing down.

"Sounds like quite an adventure," he says after I'm finished.

"It was. But then I ruined it by—" My eyes fill with tears.

He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. "Why did you drink?"

I swallow hard. "Because I wanted to forget."

And it's at that exact moment my cell phone decides to chirp from my pocket. I pull it out and stare unblinkingly at the screen, then quickly shove it away.

"Who was that?" he asks.

My eyes avert. "No one important."

"For no one important, they certainly seem to be getting a rise out of you."

"It was just my dad." I drop my face in my hands. "Like I said, no one important."

"Ah ha. Now we're getting somewhere." Bastian reaches across the table and takes my hands in his. They feel nice, warm and comforting against my skin. "What's going on?"

"I hate him," I blurt out.

"Come on, you don't mean that."

"I do!" The next words catch in my throat, but I force them out anyway. "I think he was cheating on my mom. He moved out and all he wants to do is spend time with his stupid secretary. He barely even sees me and my brother anymore. And now he's asked for a divorce." I wipe away a sneaky tear from the corner of my eye. "He doesn't love us. He's in love with her."

"You don't honestly believe he doesn't love you, do you? He's your father. And a father will always love his children. No matter what's happening in his life."

I cross my arms over my chest. "He has a funny way of showing it."

"Maybe so. But it doesn't make it any less true." His voice grows soft. "I know he's hurt you, but he's only human. That doesn't excuse what he's done, mind you, but it means he's not perfect. No one is. We just do what we can to get through each day. But I can promise you one thing," he pauses, and reaches for my hands, "whatever's going through his head has absolutely nothing at all to do with you. This is all him. And yes, it's selfish and irresponsible and it hurts like hell. But guess what? Life isn't always fair. And no matter how hard we plan, the universe doesn't owe us anything."

A sigh escapes from the splintered remains of my heart. "Did you feel this way when you weren't speaking with your dad? Back when you came out?"

Bastian chuckles. "Are you kidding me? I couldn't stand to think about the man, let alone look at him! But eventually, I got over it. And so did he. And when we finally talked about things rationally, we were able to see each other's points-of-view—as different as they were. I'm not saying it was easy ... but it was worth it in the end," he tells me, his eyes misting over ever so slightly.

"You have to find a way to forgive him, Gwen. Otherwise, all of this hurt is going to collect inside of you and it's going fester until it becomes an entity all its own. And then it'll make you sick because that's what negativity does. And you are so much more than these bad feelings. You're a good and caring person and you know how to forgive. Don't let your father's mistakes change who you are. Because this world needs a Gwen Lincoln."

A huge lump forms in my throat, but I barely have time to let his words sink in before Hartley sticks her head out of the bathroom door.

"Do I seriously have to clean these weird toilet thingies attached to the wall?"

Bastian's lips quip up at the corner but he hides his smile. "You mean, the urinals?"

From all the way down the hall wall, I can see her big blue eyes roll. "Whatever!"

"Yes. You seriously have to clean them."

"Ugh!" Hartley curses under her breath. "Next time I work here, I want to be on stage. And Gwen does, too. We are destined for stardom, Bastian, and you would be doing us a great disservice if you didn't do everything in your power to help nurture our creativity." Her face lights up with an idea. "Hey, maybe that's what we can do for my community service project!"

My eyes about pop out of my head. "Oh, no! I am never getting on that stage again! My lip-syncing days are over."

Hartley smirks and then blows a chunk of hair away from her eyes. "We'll see about that. Before this summer is over, I vow to get your butt back up there again. If it's the last thing I ever do!"

Bastian turns to me. "Community service project?"

I scrape my spoon against the bowl, searching for one last morsel of soup. "She has to perform community service hours before she goes back to school."

"Really?" He looks thoughtful. "I may be able to help with that. I could always use some extra hands down at the shelter. You two could spend the day there if you'd like. I'd love to have you."

"Sully, too?" I ask.

He smiles. "Sullivan, too."

A twinge of excitement shoots through me. It's been a long time since I've gotten the chance to volunteer. And even though I normally donate my time to creatures of a four-legged variety, getting to see what's it's like inside a shelter for runaway teens sounds like an intriguing way to spend the afternoon.

"Did you hear that, Hartley? Bastian said we can volunteer at the shelter! Isn't that great?"

She doesn't look thrilled. "Yeah, great. But that doesn't answer my question: when do I get to go back on stage?"

"We'll talk about that next time," Bastian says. "But this time, you have urinals to clean."

"You'll be sorry when I'm rich and famous one day, knowing you made these hands clean pee!" She slinks back inside the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Bastian turns to me, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. "Do you think she's really cleaning in there?"

I shake my head. "You'll definitely need to do it again."

"That's what I was afraid of. It's hard to find good help these days."

I smile. "It's even harder to find best friends. Especially ones who will hold your hair back when you're puking your guts out."

Once again, he takes my hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze. "It may not seem like it now, but you're a very lucky girl. You have so many people who care about you. Including me."

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like things might actually be okay.