Mornings After
By Syrinx
Summary: How men cope with a morning after.
Disclaimer: All rights to the Thoroughbred series belong to Joanna Campbell and Harper Collins.
A/N: Original character, Cindy Series, sequel to Star Quality.
I've always been confused about the tides. You always see those pictures of high and low but for some reason I failed to cement them in my head. I'm standing here barefoot in the tide pools and thinking that this must be low tide, but I'm never really sure. The line of driftwood and the waste of the ocean are further up on the beach; it is the mark of high tide. That much I know, yet it's too drastic for me. There's a central part of me that says it is impossible. To have that much movement in such a small space of time is improbable.
Well, screw it. I'm surprised I'm awake this early to even try to understand what I've never understood. The sand is sticking to my wet feet and I hate the feeling. I'm not a beach person, which explains my ineptitude about the ocean. It's beautiful to the absolute point. There's a hot California sun rising in the east and slanting down on the dark blue of the waves and it's all glitter and smooth white; but it's not for me.
"How the hell can you stand this?" I ask Jack next to me, who's standing in the early morning wearing the same cloths he had on last night.
"Stand what?" he asks, not looking out at the turbulent ocean but back at the hotel.
It's a good question, and suddenly I don't know which answer I want. It could be the sticking sand or the throbbing hang over, or anything else.
"You look like hell," Jack says, not giving me a chance to make up my mind.
I laugh, forgetting. "Same applies to you."
We're both right. I have the taste of beer on the back of my throat that never goes away with mint toothpaste and mouthwash. It's disgusting and will only wear away with the course of the day. I'm only thirty minutes away from waking, and on my course from my hotel room to here I managed to swipe the cigarette stained clothing off the floor and pull them on. Khaki shorts and a shirt, both ripe with the smell of bars. Jack isn't looking much better, and in the August heat it can only get worse.
I sigh and rub the tips of my fingers against my scalp and through my hair. It feels better to put some pressure down against the singing nerve endings that woke up only recently from the dulling effects of drunkenness. When I lift my fingers I feel nausea rushing up and I have to swallow.
"You okay?" Jack asks, catching my choked noise.
"Will be in a few hours," I answer and we both stand in silence for a second, staring in different directions and looking rough around the edges.
"When's your flight?" I finally ask, finding a crushed and nearly empty package of cigarettes in my right pocket of the shorts. I pull them out and find two left; an appropriate number. I take one out, thinking it might dull the old taste of beer in my throat, and hand the other to Jack, which he doesn't reject. It's a rare thing to watch Jack smoke, but I don't say anything and neither does he.
"In about four hours," he responds, taking the cigarette and lighting it with the lighter I hand him.
"You'll be glad to get back, I guess," I say, because I'm not sure yet if I can think about going back to New York. The reasoning behind that is my own entire fucked up fault, since I know the moment I see her all my self-restraint will fly away like the wind and I'll be stuck wanting two worlds. At the moment, California and Los Angeles are all beautiful and grand. Laura's not here to remind me of my self imposed mistakes and I can pretend New York doesn't exist. Laura doesn't exist. Only California and this big, dirty city.
"Yeah," Jack says, the smoke slipping out with the words. "Yeah, I guess."
"Did you see Audrey out here?" I ask. It's one of my own faults that I could be accused of liking. I ask the questions no one wants to answer.
"Yeah," Jack nodded after a second, taking another long drag from the cigarette.
"How did that go?" I ask.
"Surprisingly well," he says. And then: "You know, I just don't feel like talking about it."
"I thought it went well," I say, oblivious for a sweet, young moment.
"It did," he responds.
It doesn't take me more than a second to realize, and I laugh without thinking. I laugh until I meet Jack's angry glare and I try to stop, but I can't.
"God damn it, Ryan," Jack sighs, looking away again.
"What are you doing about it?" I ask after I shake off the laughter.
"I'm not doing anything about it," Jack shakes his head. "It's done with her."
"But not too done," I kid, and I know I'm pushing him too far. I've known Jack since we were ten, and I don't need any signals to see he's pissed. We've been pissing each other off for over ten years. We know when we're intentionally pushing each other's buttons.
"Oh what?" Jack laughs, and it's one of those sarcastic, pissed laughs. "You're one to talk?"
"Nah, I never said I was," I say, and he nods.
"Thank fucking God," he says.
"It's just a little surprising given you'll be seeing Cindy later today," I say.
"I'm not seeing Cindy later today," he corrects me. "And why would it matter?"
This is what I love about Jack. He's so fucking decent, but in cases like this I feel the need to shake him.
"Alright," I nod, finishing my cigarette and putting it out in the sand. "I'm not going to say it doesn't matter, because it does and you know that as well as I do so stop freaking pretending like she wouldn't care. Simply put, she does care."
He sighs and puts out his cigarette. "No, it wouldn't matter. She wouldn't care because she's never cared before."
"Never cared about what?" I ask, wondering if he sees the giant flaw in the logic that I see so clearly.
"I'm just not going to talk to you about this," Jack refuses to give me more.
"Why the hell not?" I ask. "I don't really give a crap if she cares or not."
"You just think she does and based on what?" Jack asks, looking at me now and wanting an answer.
I let out a short laugh because I can't believe this. It's just like Jack and Cindy to sit and stare at each other all day and pretend they're not. It fits both their personalities. It's maddening, and they like it that way. None of it makes sense to me because I have no patience for it. I don't sit and wait, and I don't dance around people. I never danced around Laura, and she never did that with me. It almost makes me love her more, and it nearly makes me regret California and this city.
"You two enjoy being blind," I say. "It's not my place to say why."
He laughs tiredly at that and runs a hand through his dark hair. "We're not blind."
I'm a little surprised. It's nearly the first time I've gotten Jack to admit to this.
"So what?" I ask him.
"Exactly," he says. "I'm so fucking mystified by that girl."
"Not exactly the type to take to some funky hotel room?" I kid, as if either of us have done that.
"No," Jack says slowly. "I don't think she's the porn kind of girl."
"Then enjoy being mystified," I say.
"It's nearly enjoyable," he lies, coming back.
I run my fingers through my dirty hair and press the tips against my forehead. The nausea rushes back again and this time I do nearly throw up. It's too damned early to be doing this.
"Here," Jack says, handing me a half-empty water bottle. I glance at the Dasani label and take a few deep gulps to clear out the smoke that hasn't made the taste any better in my throat. After I hand the bottle back to Jack I find the taste nearly gone.
We're silent again for a little while, the waves rushing up on the shore and lapping at our feet to wash away the sticking sand.
"Yeah, I'll be glad to get back to New York," Jack finally says, and my mouth lifts in a small smile.
"I bet," I nod.
"I'm going to go ahead and get packed," Jack says, turning toward the hotel again. "You coming?"
"No," I shake my head. "I'm just going to get some more air."
"You need it."
"I'll be up in a few," I say, and he turns to leave and walk back up the beach to the hotel. I stare out at the ocean for a little while longer, the salt breeze kicking off the waves and passing me by. I suddenly have an urge to call Laura and see how she is. See if I can talk her into coming here again. I know I shouldn't; I know she hates me asking, but I will.
The tide is rolling in, I think. The shallow pools are starting to disappear. I feel an object roll over my foot with the surf and I look down at the ground to a piece of white glass stuck in the endless wash of the waves. I pick it up without thinking, running my hand in the rushing water that whips back to sea. I take a brief look at the smooth milky pebble in my hand, and then throw it back into the blue of the ocean.