At times like this, 'hangover' wasn't a good enough description. Mark was a mess. He knew it, because he felt it. He was unshaven, expensive clothes creased up, tie handing undone around his neck, shirt untucked, making him look like he wasn't shrouded in designer labels and instead should be sleeping on a park bench. You would think this would be a deterrence, and many thought it should be for alcoholics. It just didn't work like that. If only. That was like saying the cure to an obese person's weight loss would be to choose a diet soda with their supersized Big Mac meals. He had an horrifically pounding head and ended up puking into a plastic bag in the car on the drive over here. Luckily Ali was a mother and knew how to be prepared. He was dehydrated, and as much as the coffee probably would have helped, he couldn't stomach the thought of putting it near his mouth.

He would eventually shower, probably sitting on the floor of the cubicle for the duration when his legs wouldn't hold him, and cut himself trying to shave a few times. Then crash in bed for an indeterminable amount of hours. Upon which, if he didn't work to break the cycle, he would hit the bottle again the following night. At the mention of what happened with Justin, he just closed his eyes, feeling them sting. "I don't want you knowing everything that happened to him. I don't want you having all the details stuck inside your head that you can't stop thinking about it."