Page 69 of You Complicate Me

He kissed her, hard and desperate. For a second, he thought she was going to kiss him back, but she didn’t. So he just pressed his cheek against hers and held on for dear life.

Her breathing hitched, and as a single, lonely tear rolled down her cheek, he thought—hoped—he had her. He thought she was going to change her mind and give him the second—or third—chance he didn’t really deserve but wanted more than his next breath.

But his hope was ground to dust under her stiletto as she pushed shakily out of his arms, leaned up to kiss his cheek, and said, “Goodbye, Nick.”

Nick rubbed his chest absently as he watched her walk away, wondering if this was what Michael was feeling right now. Because if it was, he owed the kid a giant apology for every nasty thing he’d thought and said about him over the course of the week. No one deserved to feel like this.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Since all her girlfriends were in LA and not answering their damn phones, poor Gage got stuck with the responsibility of plying Grace with alcohol and ice cream to get her over her breakup.

After two hours or so of listening to her sob and moan, he decided her ice cream intake was slowing down her alcohol intake. She needed the ice cream, but she really needed the alcohol. So, in all his infinite wisdom, Gage suggested mixing the vodka directly into her tub of Cherry Garcia. And thus, the Smirnoff Smoothie was born.

Sadly, the genius of the idea just made her sob harder, because the first person she’d wanted to call and talk to about the Smirnoff Smoothie was Nick.

Nick totally would’ve appreciated the genius of the Smirnoff Smoothie.

But the next day, as Grace eyed the hollowed-out tub of ice cream and four empty bottles of vodka—she was pretty sure Gage had contributed mightily to the downfall of the vodka, but sadly, the ice cream was all her—she started doubting the Smirnoff Smoothie as a viable breakup cure-all.

“You look something a cat puked up,” Gage told her as he started an IV in her arm to replenish her fluids.

Grace lifted her head and squinted at him out of one eye—she’d learned pretty quickly that opening both eyes fully felt like someone was jamming a cattle prod into her eye socket—while she contemplated giving him the finger. Ultimately deciding that would require too much effort, she instead asked him, “Why don’t you look like death on a stick? You drank every bit as much as I did. And where the hell did you even get an IV?”

“I drank more than you did. I started drinking a full day before you and never really stopped. But I also weigh more and ate more real food than you did last night—ice cream doesn’t count. And I’ve always held my liquor better than you. The IV came from the medical supply store down the street. I picked it up after our last vodka run. I figured you’d be needing it.”

She wanted to argue about him holding his liquor better than her, but kept her mouth shut. After all, he was right, and there was that whole effort thing to consider. Using up what little energy she had at the moment seemed like a bad idea. “Do you think this will work?” she asked, gesturing with her chin to the IV.

He shrugged as he hung the IV bag on the pole. “Restorative IVs aren’t magical cure-alls. The only real hangover cure is time. But this’ll probably take the edge off and make it so you can catch your flight home this afternoon without puking on the plane.”

Thoughts of puking on the plane just brought up memories of the last time she’d puked on a plane, which brought up memories of Nick, which just made her sad and contemplating Smirnoff Smoothies again. She needed a subject change, and fast. “Did you check on Michael last night?”

Gage sat down next to her on the couch. “He’s fine. He was with your mom and she was trying to set him up with some blonde when I saw them.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “I suppose she’s thinking he can just screw someone else until he doesn’t miss Sadie anymore?”

Gage raised a brow at her. “I guess he could just drink Smirnoff Smoothies until he needs a restorative IV instead.”

She sniffed. “Touché.”

“Everyone copes with a breakup and loss differently. Don’t be judge-y.”

Grace leaned her head back against the sofa. “And how will you deal with your loss in this whole thing?”

“I didn’t lose anything,” he said, his voice flatter than day-old Diet Coke. “I felt…something for a girl who apparently didn’t feel anything back, because she left without a word.” He shrugged. “No loss. I move on.”

“And hook up with blondes?” she asked gently.

He glanced over at her and smirked. “If they’re lucky.”

Grace reached over and patted his knee, careful not to disturb her IV. “They would be lucky. Sadie would’ve been lucky to have you. And just for the record, she did feel something back. She just didn’t know what to do with that feeling. Or any feelings, apparently.”

“Fuckin’ kids these days,” he muttered in his best old-man get-off-my-lawn voice. “Don’t know nothin’.”

“Yeah, you laugh so you won’t have to feel.”

“Yeah, well, you drink so you won’t have to feel.”

Another sniff. “Touché.”

---