Page 50 of If Not for My Baby
I scramble off the bed and dart into the bathroom just in time to purge every mistake I’ve made tonight into the toilet.
Seventeen
I wake to a throbbing inmy head so brutal, I fear I’m concussed. My body is slick with sleep and sweat and—
Every muscle tenses.
I’m naked, save my underwear.Naked.
Like I’ve been bit by something radioactive, all my senses kick into high gear and I scan the room. Based off its pale blue hue, it’s just after first light. I’m not in a hotel. Nor the tour bus. This is someone’sbedroom. And a very nice one at that. Polished concrete floors, lofted ceiling with a modern-looking chandelier. No framed photos or knickknacks of any kind. Nothing even remotely Dianentine.
On the bedside table are relics of a hellish night: a stale, half-finished glass of water. A once-damp washcloth. One slice of crusty toast on a paper towel. My stomach heaves, but I know there’s nothing in it.
Outside, a lawn mower buzzes faintly. A robin warbles out a tune. And beside me, steady, male breathing and the weight of someone else in the bed.
I nearly jump a foot in the air.
I’vesleptwith someone.
Flashes of the previous evening rip through my mind like a flip-book. Rejecting Halloran. Guilt. Regret. Too many shots. Molly licking Pete’s neck. Conor trying to teach me and some pop star a drinking game called Kings. Lionel’s tie around his head like Rambo. Some old guy with an orange-hued fake tan—
Oh, gross.
Please don’t be him, please don’t be him…
I shift infinitesimally in the bed to see who I’m next to and bite nearly through my lip to remain silent—my elbow is a tsunami of pain. I lift it from beneath the sheets, careful to keep my bare chest covered and inspect the damage. It’s purple and splotchy and swollen, but I’m able to bend it, thank God. Not broken, just hideous.
“We’ll find you some ice for that.”
Halloran is lying on top of the covers beside me, one eye weakly pried open. The cuffed white button-down he slept in is severely rumpled, a few undone buttons exposing his perfect chest. Those dark jeans—even the socks he has on—are doing wonders. In the corner slouch his Chuck Taylors, jacket, and Indy’s hot pink heels, cast aside. His hair is loose and unruly with sleep, and there is an ease about him in this pocket of predawn light that feels rare and intimate.
I’m suddenly hot all over. “Did we—”
“Christ, no.” The edge in his still-awakening voice tells me he’s mildly horrified by the question. “Of course not. I left for two minutes to find you somethin’ to eat. Returned to findyour dress on the floor and snores coming out of you that could wake the dead.”
His amused tone dilutes the heat simmering inside of me, and I’m left lukewarm and ashamed. “Got it.”
“I didn’t see— I wasn’t lookin’. The covers were—”
“No, I got it,” I repeat. “Much appreciated.” Of course we didn’t sleep together. I was a swamp creature last night. And before that I was a dick. My voice is scarcely above a whisper as I add, “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he replies around a yawn. “I shudder to think of you seein’ me back in university. Conor and I’d have called your evenin’ a tame one.” He swings his legs off the bed and yawns once more before standing. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” I do not want to be left naked and alone in this strange bedroom.
“Getting you a change of clothes,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “And some Advil.”
I have a thousand questions but a colossal hangover is rolling in like putrid fog. When the bedroom door snicks shut behind him, I gingerly release my iron grip on the covers and stand. After the head rush subsides, I stumble into the bathroom.
The sight that greets me in the mirror could curdle milk. My hair is nineties-actress-on-a-tabloid-cover wrecked. Eye makeup to match. Elbow, as discovered previously, pretty rough as well. My lips are chapped, my eyes bloodshot—I look like a zombie from a student horror film. I don’t match the pristine bathroom—vase of lilies, linen hand towels.
Molly’s silky dress is damp and hanging over the showerdoor. Oh God, I definitely puked on it. And I doubt I had the wherewithal to wash it, meaning Halloran…I don’t know what’s worse: that he had to actively avoid seeing my naked breasts, or Tom Halloran cleaned my vomit off Molly’s dress. I could curl up and die from the mortification of either one.
I say one prayer of thanks that I’m still wearing my floral panties before moving into damage-control mode: I grab a fluffy towel and wrap myself in it even as the texture on my skin makes me gag. Then I swipe some toothpaste from a mostly empty drawer and brush my teeth with my finger twice. I drink water from the faucet like a thirsty little hamster and splash my face until I feel marginally more human.
“You decent?” Halloran calls, closing the bedroom door.
“Definedecent,” I say, rounding back into the bedroom.
