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The morning dawned too bright and too early for someone who'd not managed to sleep for a single solid hour. It may have had something to do with the burn of top-shelf liquor that slid down too easily and no longer made me splutter. But probably mostly due to the embarrassment/anger/resentment/shame that coursed through me all night.
I rolled over, away from the pure shaft of sunlight that was hitting me in the face because some inconsiderate ass hadn't bothered shutting the curtains before she decided to go on a bender at two am. In her flat. Alone.
Since I didn't finish the applications yesterday, I'd have to go back today. On a Saturday. Severely hungover. Where kids would be. Loud ones.
Groaning, I thrust my head under the pillow to block out the light, and unsuccessfully, the pain that was now pounding through my head.
After a shower, a shower-vomit, three slices of toast in reckless attempt to soak up what remained in my battered stomach, numerous cups of black coffee, and some Excedrin, I was probably okay to drive. And I mean okay enough that if I was pulled over I could probably walk in a straight line.
At ten am, most of the kids were either still sleeping, the older, moodier ones, or watching cartoons in the rec room.
The God of computer monitors must've answered my prayer because, for once, technology was on my side. I managed to input most of the records before lunch, and thankfully, most of the school stayed in bed. Exactly where I would be heading after…
The figure leaning against the door frame with his arms folded and characteristic scowl stopped my thoughts dead in their tracks. Darkened eyes piercing right through me.
"The blond threw me off."
Good.
I didn't even know if I should continue to stare him out or ignore him. Both seemed like good options. Not as good as a swift 'fuck off' but still. Obviously, being the awkward being I was, I just sat there frozen, doing anything to avoid his gaze. My head throbbed again then, especially hard, and I visibly winced.
His nostrils twitched. I fiddled with the pen I was holding.
I knew he was sniffing me out, quite literally. He'd still be able to smell the gin but surely everything else would have gone down the plug hole this morning? I didn't manage to find a partner in the short time I'd been 'looking' before he'd arrived, and was in no mood to afterward either. Not like they'd even leave anything behind to 'smell.' Gosh, was it getting hot In here or what?
My pale cheeks colored in a way that probably told him all he needed to know. It enraged me. That he could go around being him and doing what he did and I was the one getting embarrassed. Especially when I didn't even do the thing I didn't do!
Okay, I couldn't even take the moral high ground on that topic. What I did to thoughts of him getting off with another woman was entirely my own business.
"So, what happened to you?"
My eyes flicked back to him at the probing inquiry.
There were about a hundred answers to that simple question. And maybe answers I wasn't prepared to give. Especially not to him. So I just shrugged, in a way I hoped was nonchalant slash aloof. Maybe even cool.
"You're back?" he furthered, still standing resolute by the door, blocking my only exit. So he was gonna force me to talk?
"Back?"
"Here."
"…I guess so."
The conversation inspired little insight into his frame of mind. And he had the cheek to ask me if I was back, like he'd not been the one gone for three fucking years!
"So… we're back to what happened to you?"
"Absolutely nothing 'happened' to me. I just grew up."
"Clearly." And that little smug grun that pulled up the corners of his lips left me incandescent with rage. The presumptuous…
"Listen, I'll be out again later. Same time, same place."
I narrowed my eyes, wondering if he really just invited me out to watch him hunt? To watch as he picks up other women and instigates what was essentially public foreplay.
"If you wanted to catch up."
Oh. And why was I now slightly disappointed?
I watched him saunter off down the hall, all six-foot-three of him in plaid and brown leather.
We'd not even had a phone call in those three years he'd been gone. He'd undoubtedly thought nothing of me. Otherwise, he would have known how far I'd fallen off the rails. Shit, not even my best friends wanted anything to do with me.
So why was he so interested now? Because I wasn't throwing myself at him?
I thought about it all the way home that afternoon.
I wished things could have been like they were when I was younger. Easier. Less responsibility. Simpler, maybe. Each year I had on me felt like ten, and not even from the influx of other people's experiences being forced inside me. Back when I dared to dream, and a hug was just that. Not a gateway into all the sad ideas and self-destructive memories of what life used to be like.
Once I arrived home, I flipped Sportcentre on loud, ignoring the neighbor who pounded the wall, before cranking up my Ipod. I decided tonight was going to be a night for me. I was going to cook myself a nice meal, have some wine, a bath. I deserved a little self-care. Maybe it would help me center myself. Like I wasn't already so far from center the fricking compass needle had bent around itself.
In the ensuing hour, I sliced open my hand cutting an onion, burnt the other on hot oil, then realized I had nothing else to cook with the onion except dried spaghetti. In a moment of pure, idiotic rage, I threw the pan the the wall.
Without wine, I yanked the bottle of gin down from a top shelve I told myself I wasn't going to traverse, and drank it straight from the neck. Then thought I should probably line my stomach if I was going to continue down this path. So that's how I was spending my Friday evening, sitting in the bath, eating peanut butter out of the jar.
One of the teams scored from the other room and I cheered loudly, earning myself another wall-hammering.
After a while, I thought I should actually fill the bathtub with water, instead of sitting in it fully clothed. I stripped off, plugged the bath and ran the shower, slowly filling up the tub while I lay under its lazy spray.
A long, hot bath was supposed to be good for you, right? Purge the soul. My pale skin went from too white to lobster in a few seconds flat. I switched the water to come out of the bath tap instead, skimming my foot under the water, just close enough to feel the pain on the sole of my foot. Testing myself.
I continued taking slugs from the bottle. Just enough of a buzz to feel like I was floating. Like a tidal wave of calm rolling over my body. A blanket of fuzz. Gin was usually my poison of choice. It felt clean somehow. Pure. Like I aspired to.
I managed to avoid thoughts of Logan all evening, until now. Until there was nothing left to occupy myself with.
Who the hell did he think he was, ordering me about like that? Okay, that was a lie, he'd asked. And quite politely for him. In all the years I'd known him, he'd never asked anything from me. It was usually me doing the asking. A ride. A promise. And later, for small amounts of money I'd swear I'd pay back, but never did. He never asked me to repay him then either.
He'd been there as well, all those times he'd been back, for all those firsts. Most of them, anyway. The first heartbreak. The first time me and Jubilee had snuck out to a party, ignoring the loud whispers and nervous giggles. And the first time regretting that decision, of pushing the limits and bringing it all up in the toilet, rather helpfully holding back my hair but offering no words of consolation.
Damn, I hated that. I was still in his debt.
Was I just going to sit here, drink into oblivion until I was drunk enough to swing from the fucking light fixtures? On two counts, no! One, because the stupid professor made sure the apartment only had recessed lighting. And B, I refused to let him take over when I was having fun minding my own fucking business. And D, I still owed him. Probably would for as long as I lived my miserable life. And maybe even his indeterminable one. Karma could be a son-of-a-bitch.
