Now,in an attempt not to fall asleep before I can take my muscle relaxer, I’m sitting on the couch as quietly as possible with the lights dimmed so the dog doesn’t start barking again. It’s worked for about forty-five minutes, but then the front door opens, and chaos ensues. The barking startles me, and as my neck tenses, pain shoots up my skull so sharply, I run to the bathroom, not even bothering to shut the door before my head is in the toilet and I’m heaving into it.
Crap. This isn’t the way to make a good first impression on my new boss and landlord/roommate. There’s shuffling in the hallway, and as I’m collecting myself and drying my hands, there’s a soft knock at the door. “You all right?” a deep voice asks.
I clear my throat and prepare myself for the full explanation of my condition. “Yeah. Sorry about that, I—” When I step out into the hallway, I look up to find gentle brown eyes, but they immediately harden once recognition sets in. “Arthur. How?—”
He cuts me off, “What the hell are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re the new OT.” He steps closer and I instinctively step back, nodding at his statement. Once I’m under the bright lights of the bathroom, I wince, and his eyes narrow as he examines my face. “Jesus, what are you on? What the fuck was Owen thinking, bringing someone like you here?”
“I’m not—What? Someone like me?” I’m genuinely confused by his reaction. He’s still so mad, and seems like an entirely different person from the one I met.
“What are you on, Alice?” My name on his lips is pure anger and disdain. “There better not be any drugs in my house right now, I swear?—”
“No! What? No, there are no drugs here. Who do you think I am?” Crossing my arms defensively, I can almost ignore the throbbing in my head and neck, thanks to the utter shock I’m experiencing.
“Don’t lie to me. You were looking dazed as hell at the bar. I saw your drink. Then I come home and you’re throwing up again with bloodshot eyes. I won’t ask you again. What did you take?” His eyes close when he exhales, like he’s trying to calm himself.
“If you must know, I took a naproxen in the car after I left the bar.” It’s my turn to narrow my eyes.
“An over-the-counter painkiller? You’re telling me that’s all you’ve taken?” With furrowed brows, he continues to study me.
“Yes. I don’t do drugs. I never have, and I never will. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go pack my things.” I brush past him and start to head for the stairs. There’s no way I’m staying here or working with him.
I need to leave.
“So it’s just alcohol then?” His words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I halt.
“Excuse me?” I turn around to face him, my hands fisting at my sides.
“You don’t do drugs, but you drink until you puke your guts out?” He scoffs.
“No,” I grit out. “I don’t.”
The lift of his eyebrow is a challenge. He thinks I drank too much last week. And he must think I was drinking tonight, too. “Not that I owe you an explanation, because you’re nothing and no one to me, but I was drinking soda water tonight. Last Wednesday was the first time I’ve ever tasted alcohol. It was also how I found out I have an alcohol intolerance, which means within minutes of ingesting it, I get sick and, as you so eloquently put it, puke my guts out. I have chronic headaches brought on by an old injury, and stress or physical exertion can make them worse. They also make me nauseous, hence the puking today. Is there anything else about my life I need to explain to you before I leave, or can I go now?” I don’t wait for his answer before I turn around and storm up the stairs.
I’m halfway there when he speaks up. “Wait.” I take another step. “Alice. I’m sorry. Please, wait.” The soft voice I remember from the night we met stops me in my tracks, and I turn around, arms crossed, firmly determined not to be swayed about what I thought I knew about this man. “You weren’t drunk last week?”
“I’ve never been drunk,” I answer honestly.
“Ne—”
“Never,” I interrupt. “And I don’t give a crap whether you believe me or not because it’s the truth. Whatever idea you have of me in is wrong, but frankly, it doesn’t matter, since I was obviously wrong about you, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pack my things.”
Something like disappointment stirs in my gut when I make it to the door of my bedroom in silence, but before Ican scold myself for even thinking about anything in this place as mine, there’s a gentle touch on my shoulder.
“Don’t go.” His words are a whisper, but they stop me so abruptly that I nearly fall over. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m an asshole, and of course I completely understand that you don’t want to stay here anymore, but please don’t quit your job. I misjudged you based on my own experiences with people who deal with addiction.” Once I’m fully facing him, his eyes are on the floor, but given how short his hair is, I get a full view of his furrowed brow. “If you go, Owen and Maeve will be so disappointed, and I can’t be the reason for that. And you don’t owe me anything, but they seem to think you’re perfect for this position. I trust Owen with my life, so I’m sure he’s not wrong about you… like I was.” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Also, Rosemary will bury me six feet under if I’m the reason you quit. Keep your job. Please.”
I don’t know this man, and right now I don’t particularly like him, but I feel his sincerity in a visceral way. The silence between us is charged and tense, and I do nothing to ease it because I don’t knowhowto.
“You’re not going to go live with the creepy dolls, are you?” Under different circumstances, the question would make me smile. Until he walked into the bar tonight, my memories of our time together last week would make me borderline giddy.
I clear my throat and the emotion in it. “I don’t have any other options, so…”
He looks up at me then, brows furrowing impossibly tighter as his head shakes the tiniest amount.
“No,” he starts, and I nod sheepishly in return, already mentally preparing myself for the awkward conversation I’m about to have with my ex-roommate and her strangeboyfriend. “Stay here. I swear it can’t get any worse than this, and this is pretty fucking terrible, I know. But I promise I’m not an entirely horrible person. I’ll leave you alone, give you space, cook you breakfast every morning, I don’t know. You don’t want to seriously live somewhere with haunted dolls and—” His face flushes as he cuts himself off, and I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling because this rambling, blushing version of Arthur is almost likable.
“Porn noises?” I ask without smiling, which feels like a major feat. He was right about one thing the night we met—my face always gives my emotions away.
Huffing out the tiniest breath of a laugh, he runs a hand down his face. “Yeah. That. You don’t want to live somewhere like that.”
