Page 44 of Maybe You

“Goodnight.”

There’s silence again, and my eyelids turn heavy after a while.

“You’ll change your mind come morning,” Sutton mutters some time later.

My eyes fly open again, but instead of saying anything, I just stare at the dark ceiling.

We’ll see about that.

NINE

Holy fucking shit, I’m dying.

I lie very still and keep my eyes aimed at the ceiling. I tried to move them earlier, and it felt like somebody was performing brain surgery on me without the courtesy of administering anesthesia first.

My mouth feels like something crawled in there and died and is now rapidly decomposing.

This room has way too much light in it.

I try to swallow, but there’s nothing to swallow, unless I’m going to give in to the urge and vomit right here and now. And now I’m thinking about the possibility of having to force my own puke back down, which does not help the nausea situation one bit.

“Oh, this is so not worth it,” I mutter to the ceiling.

Somebody snorts somewhere on my left. I slowly turn my head and find Sutton standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, drinking something from a mug.

Well. Somebody looks chipper.

He’s dressed in a pair of navy pants and a tight black T-shirt, and he looks obscenely happy for a person who threw back just as many drinks as I did last night.

Life really, truly isn’t fair.

I get it now.

“Changing your mind about drinking?” Sutton eyes me with badly disguised entertainment.

I use up most of my willpower to slowly push myself into a sitting position, and then I use whatever scraps are left on not vomiting. Somehow, I succeed. For now. I wouldn’t put it past myself to change my stance on that in the near future.

I stare straight ahead and try not to move my head too much.

“Why did nobody warn me?” I ask.

Sutton takes a sip of whatever he’s drinking and steps into the room. “About hangovers? I can’t speak for others, but I personally was under the impression it was common knowledge.”

“You’re absolutely no help,” I mutter.

He just laughs, goes to the dresser by the wall, pulls open a drawer, and comes back to me, holding out a set of clothes.

“Go take a shower and get changed. There’s a toothbrush on the counter. You’ll feel better then.”

I send him a pathetic look. “Promise?”

“Yes. Go. I’ll make you something to eat in the meantime.”

I get up and clutch the T-shirt and the sweats he handed me. Yeah, T-shirt. That’s…

“Hey,” I say, and he turns around in the doorway and sends me a questioning look. I fidget with the hem of the shirt. “Do you have anything with long sleeves?”

He cocks his head to the side for a moment, then he simply nods and goes and hands me a sweatshirt.

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