Page 70 of Touch the Sky
Chapter 16
Tess
Ionly had a beer and a half last night, but I’ve never woken up feeling sicker.
As soon as I roll over to check the time on my alarm clock, my stomach heaves. I wrap an arm around my abdomen, wracking my brain for any hint of what could have possibly given me food poisoning.
Then I remember.
I’m not sick from the food.
I’m sick from the guilt.
I kissed Jacinthe.
‘Kiss’ is way too demure of a verb for what we did together. ‘Make out’ doesn’t even seem to cover it.
It’s more like we fucked with our mouths.
I can still hear the sounds she made. I can still feel her fingers in my hair. I can still taste her, heat and desperation blooming on my tongue.
I wanted to lap her up. I wanted toeather, like a thief snatching cherry pie off a windowsill to bury my face in the sugared fruit.
I wanted to gorge myself on something that wasn’t meant for me.
“Fucking hell,” I groan into the dimness of my bedroom.
My stomach twists into another sickening knot. I fight against a wave of head rush as I push myself up to a seat. The floorboards are cold on the soles of my feet when I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
My curtains are only half drawn. Thin, grey pre-dawn light pours in from outside. I spot my outfit from last night slung over the top of a moving box. I don’t remember getting undressed, but somehow, I’m wearing an old pair of boxers.
My stomach settles enough for me to stand. I make it all the way to the bedroom door without incident, but the nausea comes back full swing when I spot the empty hook on the wall beside the fridge.
My gaze drifts to the broken picture frame on the table.
“Shit,” I mutter.
It really happened. There’s no blaming last night on a dream. There isn’t even any chance of blaming it on alcohol.
I did that stone cold sober, and Jacinthe wasn’t far behind me.
I lunge for the sink, bracing my elbows on the cool metal and letting my head hang down into the basin. My vision swims and I cough a few times, but nothing comes up.
I straighten up and flail for a water glass. I set the tap as cold as it will go and gulp down the freezing liquid. When I’m done, I drag the back of my hand across my lips and raise my eyes to the window.
Mist is still clinging to the paddocks. The forest beyond the fields is a patchwork of red and yellow leaves threaded with the spiky lines of empty branches. Everything is cast with an indigo sheen, like the final coat of night soon to be burnt away by the rising sun.
Jacinthe will be out in the yard any minute now. We always meet there just before dawn.
I plant my hands on my hips, my gaze darting between the window and the coffee machine on the counter.
By now, I’d usually have a pot brewing. Shel’s white noise machine would be buzzing up in the loft, loud enough to keep the drip-drop of the coffee stream from waking her up.
On any other morning, I’d fill my travel mug, add a splash of cream from the mini fridge, and throw on my coat and boots before pulling the door shut extra softly behind me.
The grass outside would still be wet with dew, or maybe crunchy with frost now that the weather has turned. My breath would fog the air in front of me. I’d trudge down the path to the barn, and Jacinthe would already be there unlocking the door.
We’d say hi, take a few sips of our coffees, and get to work on the horses.
