Page 151 of If Ever

"It's hardly your fault." But somehow I fear it's mine.

"She told me about the run in with her dad," Anna says. "I think this is her way of letting out her frustrations."

But I don't think this has anything to do with her dad

"There's not much Chelsea can't handle, but his abandonment really messed with her."

I glance at my usually beautiful girlfriend huddled between the toilet and tub, pale-faced and shivering. I want to hold her, but she smells vile, can barely hold her head up, and likely isn't finished puking.

Anna kneels next to her. "How about we get you to bed?"

Chelsea groans and presses her face against the cold tile. "I'll stay here."

Anna and I share a smile.

"Then let's get you out of your dress. You look like a strung out hooker," Anna says with a laugh.

Chelsea shakes her head, but lets me wrangle the zipper lower and as she sits up, retches again. When she's finished she sinks bonelessly to the cool floor. "Moving makes it worse. Just leave me."

I've had nights like this, but not for a long time. "I'll get her a blanket." When I return, Anna is on the floor talking softly to Chelsea, teasing her and moving her hair out of her face.

"We'll laugh about this someday. Just like the night we all auditioned for Celebrity Dance Off."

But Chelsea doesn't agree. "Please go away and let me die in peace."

***

I didn't die. Instead I wake up to a sledgehammer pounding on my brain and what feels like moss growing in my dry mouth. My head is resting on a toilet paper roll and a blanket covers me.

"Morning, Sunshine!" Anna says brightly.

"Promise me you're never having another bachelorette party."

"Nope. Just this one." She pours a glass of water and hands me two ibuprofen, and then I remember Tom and some of the horrible things I said. I cringe, which hurts my head.

"How mad is he?"

She cracks a smile. "I think he's fine."

"I need to talk to him." I strain to stand. My head swirls, so I sit on the toilet.

"Why don't you finish your water and take a shower first?"

"I need to apologize."

"Honey, it might be best to wash the vomit out of your hair first."

I touch my hair. Sure enough there are clumps of hurl cemented in it. Evidence is also dried on my arm, and my dress is wadded around my waist. I hide my head in shame. "Oh God, he must hate me."

"Hardly, despite your efforts to change his mind, the chap seems quite smitten," she says in a British accent and chuckles.

But he must be horrified by my behavior. I am. After a hot shower and another cool glass of water, I ease into the kitchen. Pastries are laid out on the kitchen table. Tom's making scrambled eggs, pancakes and bacon, and Bloody Marys to chase the hair of the dog.

He glances up. "You're looking better."

I spot his phone on the counter and remember sending him pictures of me flirting with other men. My heart sinks, and not only does my whole body ache from a raging hangover, but how could I have been so childish?

"I'm so sorry," I say softly. He gives me a tight smile and returns to cooking breakfast for my friends.

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