Chapter 21

Elizabeth hated the taste of whiskey, especially when she woke in the morning with the taste still on her tongue.

Groaning, she lifted her head long enough to glance at the digital clock on her nightstand and realize that she was still dressed in her clothes from the night before. She dropped her head back to her pillow, her nose wrinkling up when she realized that it too smelled like whiskey.

"Oh, shit," she cried, her head snapping back up and looking at the clock.

3:30.

She moaned painfully, dropping her face back to her pillow, knowing there was no way that the clock was showing the a.m. time. Rolling onto her back, she lifted her exceptionally heavy arm and laid it over her eyes, her other clutching her stomach.

Three – no four – maybe five? Shots of whiskey, and three Long Islands, and there was a vague memory of maybe doing some weird colored shot with Ritchie. What the hell had she been thinking?

Jason.

She frowned at the thought to of him, her lips curling in disgust as she rubbed her eyes against her arm. Technically, he wasn't completely to blame, but if she would have known he was going to stay sober while she got sloshed beyond recognition, perhaps things could have been different.

Like maybe she would talk to him and not – Oh, hell.

Had she talked to him?

She sat up in bed, despite the churning in her stomach and looked at her nightstand where a bottle of water sat, along with a bottle of aspirin, and a note written on a post-it. Whimpering, she managed to crawl across the bed, growing more and more annoyed with how terrible she smelled.

"Stupid whiskey," she hissed, reaching out to snatch the items in one swoop. The water nearly fell from her hands, but she managed to catch it and not throw up in the process.

Rolling onto her back, she opened the aspirin, pouring two, and then decided on four if she was going to somehow get through the day. She started to pop them in her mouth, but noticed the post-it balled up in her hand. Against her better judgment, she decided to read it, and her heart sank at the sight of his familiar script.

Elizabeth,

I'm sorry for everything.

Jason

Like she had any idea what that meant, but apparently it was something.

"Fuck," she spat, smacking herself in the head with the paper and rolling her eyes as it stuck to her forehead. She opened the bottle of water and tossed the aspirin into her mouth, drinking half the bottle down in several gulps. Tipping her head back, she glanced at the clock again, knowing that if she didn't get a move on, she was going to be late.

She crawled to the edge of the bed, slowly pushing herself to her feet and trying to fight the uneasiness that washed over her. She didn't have time to be hungover if she was going to make it to her opening.

Yawning, she padded her way to the bathroom, reaching up to jerk the post-it from her face when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. "Come on, Webber," she murmured, leaning over to turn on the shower.

She braced one hand against the wall as she shimmied out of her jeans, pushing away to tug her camisole over her head. Both of which smelled heavily like liquor. She had no time to focus on scolding herself, sure that she could do enough of that later.

She arched her back when she stepped into the shower stall, the hot water easing her tense body immediately. Yawning again, she leaned forward to brace two hands against the tiled-wall, letting the scalding hot water beat down on her. Giving into her exhaustion, she kneeled down, bracing one hand on the wall, when suddenly she was hit with a memory of being in her hallway and Jason beside her.

"No," she moaned, clenching her hands into angry fists.

"I wouldn't have kissed you had I known how it was going to make me feel."

She smacked herself in the forehead, swearing under her breath.

"How's that?"

"No, no, no," she cried, slumping against the wall, her head in her hands.

"Like he did."

"Oh, son of a bitch. You stupid, stupid, girl," she groaned, slamming her head repeatedly against the stall, telling herself that she deserved the pain.

There was no way she was going to make it through the day and survive.

Jason paced outside Elizabeth's apartment door, torn between knocking and walking away. She'd made it clear the night before that she would drive herself to the gallery opening, but he couldn't bear the thought of seeing her and things being awkward all over again. Lately, whenever they took a step forward and fixed a problem, they seemed to take three steps back without ever meaning to.

He felt guilty for using her intoxication against her, knowing that once he got her alone, she would tell him why she was so upset that night. He almost wished he'd never asked after getting more than he bargained for. Instead of hearing that she liked it, that it lit a fire for her just like it had for him, she brought up Jason Quartermaine and how she felt for him, which had nothing to do with how she felt for Jason Morgan.

The possibilities of what that statement meant confused him, so he imagined she was just as lost. For years, she'd been juggling two different men, one that she loved more than anything and one who had become her best friend. He'd never thought about how hard it must to be look at someone who was once a different person and try not to see who they were.

Elizabeth had always been very firm about that, and when he thought about the day he woke up from his accident, he knew that she let Jason Quartermaine go immediately, pushing him out of her mind and heart. It didn't seem fair now that she'd been forced to let go of someone so important to her or that she'd done it for him. He firmly believed in people having the right to live their life by their own choices, not ones made for them, and in a way, he'd made a choice for so many people.

But none of them mattered as much as she did.

"Jason?" Her voice was soft and low, surprised to find him pacing in her hallway when she opened the door.

"Hey," he said, feeling his face turn flushed as he turned around. "I, uh, I thought…"

He swallowed hard as his eyes swept over her petite form that was framed in a teal knee-length dress, the scoop neck revealing little more than her collar bone, and the short sleeves covering half of her arms. His gaze dipped to her feet, and he arched his eyebrows in surprise of the shiny, silver flats, almost disappointed that she'd traded in her token stilettos. She brought truth to the statement that less was more – in every possible way.

"Jason, what are you doing here?"

He swallowed again, lifting his eyes to her face and biting back a groan at the sight of her bemused, sexy smile, which was completely unintentional on her part – but what didn't she make sexy these days? Her hair was curled in tight ringlets, a thin headband, the exact color of her dress, pulling them neatly away from her face.

She even made headbands sexy in a way that he just couldn't take.

"I, uh, thought we could talk," he said slowly, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Something rubbed against his hand and he pulled out his wrinkled tie, having spent twenty minutes trying to tie it himself before giving up and stuffing it in his pocket in a fit of agitation.

She eyed him wearily and tucked her silver clutch beneath her arm, stepping forward to take the tie from his hand. "You were going to wear a tie?" she asked, smoothing her shaky hands over the material.

"Yeah," he shrugged, stiffening as she reached for his collar and slid the tie beneath it.

She arched on her toes to adjust it around his neck, and he was engulfed with a mixture of her shampoo, her perfume, and just that sweet smell that seemed to follow her everywhere. He would have reveled in it had he been able to tear his eyes away from her trembling hands, letting him know that she had definitely remembered everything she said to him last night.

"Do you want to talk?" he asked slowly, as she slid the tie through the loop, tightening it against his neck and slowly smoothing it against his chest. He allowed himself a second or two to be annoyed that she had done something so expertly.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she let out an uneasy breath, and he found himself smiling at her and wanting to comfort her in some way. "We don't have to."

"But we should," she murmured, her eyes snapping open to meet his. She was wearing the right amount of makeup, just enough eye shadow and eyeliner, to make them really pop, and he knew if he stared into them for too long, he'd drown.

"I don't want things to be uncomfortable between us," she confessed quietly, one of her hands continuing to smooth over his tie.

"Neither do I."

"And what I said to you-"

"You remember?" he asked, needing her to acknowledge what she said in some way.

She nodded. "I meant it," she shrugged, her eyes brimming with tears. "And I'm sorry for bringing him up, especially to compare him or any feelings I have-"

"Don't apologize for what you feel," he interrupted, lifting his hand to hers and holding it against his chest. "I never thought that in asking you-" He paused as his cell phone rang in his pocket, and she frowned, clearly hating the interruption as much as he did, especially when he pulled away to answer it.

"What's going on, Ritchie?" he snarled, adding bad timing to another reason that he needed to fire the man.

"One of our shipments didn't make it through customs or something. All kinds of bad shit is going on. I tried to call Johnny, but he didn't answer, and-"

"I'll be there in ten," he growled, snapping his phone closed and turning back to Elizabeth. "Work. I have to go and take care of some things." She nodded, her face filling with disappointment.

"I'll be there soon," he said, stepping forward and leaning down to press a kiss against her forehead. She tensed slightly, one of her hands grabbing his arm in surprise. "I won't miss this, especially not over coffee."

Elizabeth slowly perused the room, trying to ignore the fact that it was her art lining the walls, and the people strolling about were potential buyers. She'd gone into this telling herself that if she sold a single painting, she would be proud, and if she sold nothing, she was an epic failure and would spend the rest of her life doing the books for Jason.

Oh, Jason.

It had been hours since she'd left her apartment, and Johnny had shown up briefly and made a bee-line for the door the second Elizabeth told him about Ritchie's call. Lulu, the woman who supposedly hated brushing elbows with the stuffy upper class, was right at home as she moseyed around the room and talked to everyone about the paintings. She'd spent a good hour telling Elizabeth just how brilliant everything was, and she just nodded her on, grateful when she finally went off on her own.

She felt uncomfortable walking around on her own, like everyone was watching her and expecting something. It was just how she figured she would feel and why she wanted Jason or Johnny on her arm. O'Brien would make crude comments about everyone in the room, and Jason's presence would put her at ease like it always had. Even when they weren't very close, she found comfort in having him near.

Sighing, she stopped in front of the only lonely painting in the room, her self-portrait, and found herself wondering why she'd bothered to show it. It was almost too personal, making even her shiver as she looked into the cerulean eyes, so dark and pensive. She was surprised with how sad and dark she appeared, the shadows beneath the eyes and on the cheeks made her look ragged and worn down. When she first started the painting, she found herself staring into a mirror for hours at a time, trying to figure out how to approach the painting, and then one morning she'd just woken up and started. The end result scared her, made her feel like she was standing outside of herself, and she just wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"Hey," came Jason's voice as he stepped up behind her, sliding an arm around in front of her to hand her a glass of champagne. "Sorry, I'm so late."

"Thank you," she said, cradling the flute in her hand, not daring to bring the glass to her lips. She was still surprised with how at ease they were and wondered if they were better liars than either of them ever let on. "Is everything okay?"

He shrugged, tipping his own glass of champagne towards the painting. "This is nice."

"Can you see it?" she asked, turning her gaze back to the painting.

"Sort of," he replied, running his thumb over the smooth glass of the flute. "It's you."

"Yeah," she murmured, frowning at it, still not sure if she liked what she saw.

"What's wrong?" he asked, squinting his eyes at the painting.

She felt bad that something so simple was hard for him, though sometimes she tried to imagine what things looked like in his eyes. "Do I look like that?" she asked, carefully holding her champagne flute as she folded her arms over her chest.

"Like what?"

"Sad."

He frowned, bringing his glass to his lips, and she almost laughed when he grimaced as he swallowed. "No."

"You hesitated."

"It was a loaded question."

She tipped her head in his direction. "Give me the loaded answer."

"Well," he shrugged, taking another sip to buy his time, better hiding his disgust this time. He leaned in closely, his breath hot against her ear and she was torn between pulling away and pushing against him, so she just froze. "You're the artist. You're supposed to see things no one else does."

Jason didn't realize he was holding his breath until he stepped outside the gallery to its open terrace, relieved to find he was the only one outside. Between what had happened with work and being near Elizabeth, he felt like he was crawling out of his skin. He wanted to fix things between them for good, but didn't know how – or worse, what exactly fixing entailed.

He always felt out of place in a suit, the formalities of how to hold your head or your drink always making him itch. And as if that weren't bad enough, he could feel everyone's eyes on him as he and Elizabeth made their way around the room. She insisted on explaining every painting, not that he minded because there was nothing better than seeing her work through her eyes, but he knew how people looked at him, waiting to see a glimpse of the former Quartermaine golden boy.

Thankfully, no one from his former family had shown their face, and he almost wondered if Elizabeth had told them to stay away. She'd done so in the past, despite how close she once was to them, knowing their presence would upset him. It would be different if they could just accept his life and the man he was instead of listing off every way he wasn't Jason Quartermaine.

"I thought I'd find you out here," Elizabeth murmured, appearing in the doorway, silhouetted beautifully from the light inside the gallery.

He gave up any hopes of stopping himself from admiring her, partly because he believed after what she'd said, maybe it was okay. Or maybe she was just caught up in feelings she used to have. He didn't know anything anymore.

"It gets to be a bit much," he said, bracing himself against the railing with his hands.

"Yeah, I could use a break myself." She stepped up beside him, her elbow nudging his until he looked down at her. "You sure you're okay?"

He nodded, though it was a lie, knowing he'd stumbled over his words to correct it. "I, uh, I – About earlier."

"Oh."

"Sorry I had to leave."

"It's okay." She leaned against the railing with her hip, placing a hand on his arm. "What I said…" Her face flushed and she looked away, her hand tightening around his arm. "Why did you leave the note? I didn't understand it."

"I hurt you," he said quietly, taking a deep breath. "Forcing you to forget someone in place of me – It wasn't fair, Elizabeth."

"Jason," she murmured, her face softening as her eyes found his. He could see that all her defenses were crumbling, that this would be about nothing but honesty, and he wasn't sure if he could take it. "You didn't make me do anything I didn't want to. I couldn't hold onto Jason Quartermaine once you woke up because you weren't him. It would have hurt me, it would have hurt you, and as odd as it sounds, I wanted to have you in some way. I can't explain it. I just knew that I needed you, regardless of who you were."

Her grip loosened as her thumb smoothed over his suit jacket. "And when I kissed you – I did it to make Johnny jealous, thinking that if he saw us together and thought we were happy, maybe he would feel like he was missing something."

Jason nodded slowly, wondering if she knew the true affect it'd had on Johnny – how it had taken him back in the same way it had her.

"Instead, it was like I was seventeen again," she whispered, clutching his arm. "It was like I was feeling for the first time in years, and I was so afraid." She closed her eyes, holding back her tears. "When we were kids, you and Johnny were mine and only mine. My best friends, my boys, and I never imagined there would be a time when you weren't. When we talked about growing up, we were going to do it all together, and then…"

"The accident," he filled in, shifting his gaze away, unable to look at her.

"Jason Quartermaine and Johnny O'Brien were supposed to be my constants," she continued, her hand trembling as she held him. "They were going to always be there, and then suddenly they weren't, and you woke up." She shook her head, leaning against him. "And all I had was Johnny. He knew me before, he knew me after, and I was so terrified of losing that."

"And he left," he muttered, attempting to put the distorted pieces together and waiting for the moment they would all magically click together.

"And you became my constant again," she said, her eyes fluttering open as she peered up at him. "I needed someone after Johnny left, and you were there without thinking twice, even after I kept you at arm's length because I was afraid." She lifted a hand to his face, turning his head so that he looked down at her. "I didn't want to feel things for you. Not when I'd already lost you once."

"And now?" he asked roughly.

"I'm still scared because I don't know what I feel. Is it just distorted and left over from him?" she admitted, smiling faintly as she slid her hand up his sleeve to his chest and fisted it in his jacket. "Or worse – is it real? Is it something I could lose all over again?"

He couldn't decide what was worse, not knowing what to feel or not knowing what to say. Her eyes were begging him to say anything, but he just couldn't, so he responded the only way that seemed right and lowered his mouth to hers.