Page 40 of Broken Heart Syndrome
‘Hey,’ he said softly, ‘I didn’t mind. You were sweet.’ I opened my eyes and regarded him incredulously. I wasn’t convinced that anyone could describe spewing double their body weight as sweet. He smiled. ‘Okay, so maybe when you were practically turned inside out you weren’t that cute, but after you’d finished you were definitely sweet.’
I decided that I did not want to know what he meant bythat.In fact I had decided the best thing was to get out of bed so that I could start pretending this whole thing had never happened. If I stayed this close to him for much longer, hung-over or not, I would do something monumentally stupid and embarrassing, like giving in to my ovaries and pouncing on him.
It was bad enough that he had had to take me home and deal with my drunken antics. I doubted that on top of that imposition he wanted to have to fend off a badger-mouthed, crazy-haired creature from the black lagoon.
I pushed in earnest on his heavy arm, and this time he let me wriggle out of the bed. Once I’d adjusted to my vertical position I looked down at myself and realized I was wearing a familiar T-shirt: the one Tom had been wearing last night.
‘Why am I wearing your T-shirt?’ I asked, my eyes wide and fixed on him.
He chuckled again. ‘That was part of you being cute; you insisted on wearing my T-shirt. You even said that it was something you wanted to do before you die.’ He was looking supremely smug and I had a strong urge to kick him in the shin.
How humiliating. I must have practically thrown myself at him. Well, I decided to power through this latest embarrassment. Maybe I could cover it up as temporary drunken insanity. I knew a lot of my inhibitions were stripped away when I was drunk, and that, along with several other reasons, was why I rarely let myself get that way. Still, I very much doubted that I would have revealed the full extent of my obsession with him.
I straightened my spine. ‘Look, thanks for taking me home and everything. I’m sure there were things you would rather have been doing –’
‘Not really,’ he interrupted.
I lost my train of thought. ‘Uh … what?’
‘There was nothing I’d have rather done than take you home,’ he clarified. Why was he being weird? Was he trying to make me feel better about being a crazy drunk woman?
‘Right, well … anyway, thanks but don’t feel you have to hang around now.’
‘What if I want to hang around?’ he asked, regarding me with an amused expression. My brow furrowed in confusion.
‘Um … are you okay?’ I asked cautiously. Maybe he was still drunk or maybe he had a fever. He definitely wasn’t acting like himself.
I heard movement from the living room and then the grumpy, dulcet tones of Dylan’s morning voice rumbling, ‘Ladies? Babes? Either of you up? I need breakfast and i.v. fluids before I can get off your sofa.’
All thoughts of an amused, rumpled Tom in my room flew from my head. Dylan was here. That meant he must have been here late last night, drunk. Dylan was without fail hungry when he was drunk.
Hell’s Bells.
Forgetting the fact that I was only wearing Tom’s T-shirt (luckily it fell to mid thigh so none of my bits and bobs were hanging out), I raced out of my bedroom, through the living room, past a dishevelled Dylan on our sofa, and straight into the kitchen.
Arghhh!
I was going to kill him.
‘Dylan!’ I screamed. ‘Get in hereright now.’
‘Oh balls,’ I heard him mutter. He shuffled into the kitchen with bloodshot eyes, the throw from our sofa wrapped around him. He was such a baby when he was hung-over. Well, he wasn’t going to get spoiled today. Not by me. I was furious.
He looked at me with a baleful, pained expression, communicating that he considered leaving the sofa a considerable effort. I glared at him, then directed his attention to the half-decimated cake on the counter.
‘What did I say about that cake-stand, Dyl?’ I asked in a low dangerous voice. He bit his lip and his eyes slid away from mine.
‘Um … look, Ladies, I –’
‘What did Isay?’ I screeched, and he winced, his hand going to his forehead, which was no doubt pounding. It was the least he deserved.
‘You might have said something about not eating cakes from that stand,’ he mumbled, pulling the throw up to just beneath his chin. ‘It’s not my fault, Frankie. I can’t follow all your complicated cake rules.’
I looked at the ceiling, seeking patience. ‘One rule, Dylan. One. Don’t eat the cakes from that cake-stand. Ever.’
‘Well, I was drunk and confused,’ he defended. ‘It’s not really my fault anyway; if Lou had let me stop for a kebab then I –’
‘What’s all the shouting?’ Lou breezed out of her room into the kitchen area. She was wearing a tiny pink lacy shorts-and-vest-top combo. Her hair was artfully piled onto her head, and she looked fresh as a daisy. ‘Uh-oh,’ she said as her eyes hit the remains of the cake.
