‘What’s going on?’ Another muffled voice sounded from the background, a deep, raspier tone.
‘It’s Rosie,’ Fallon explained to Oliver—her boyfriend—who was probably in bed beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’
Hearing Oliver’s voice seemed to unlock a part of my memory that tequila had done its best to erase.
‘Shit. You’re not at home.’ My head suddenly felt too heavy for my neck; it listed to the side, resting on the stall wall. My eyes slid closed.
‘I’m in Wales. Oliver played tonight… or I guess it was last night. I told you.’
She had. For the entire week, she’d been away, supportingher boyfriend as he finished off the football season. My grip on my phone tightened.
‘I remember.’ I hurried to fill the silence when it went on for too long. ‘Sorry to wake you; I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Rosie, wait.’ All the sleepiness had vanished from her voice. ‘What’s wrong?’
I chewed on my bottom lip. Ugh. Another side effect of alcohol, especially tequila, was that it made me weepy. I bit down hard, knowing that if Fallon heard the faintest sniffle, she’d find a way to get back home.
‘I, uh, just needed a lift home. I’ll call an Uber.’ I forced whatever peppiness I had left into my voice.
‘I can—’ she started.
‘I’m good,’ I nearly shouted. ‘See you soon.’
Before I could betray my fragility any further, I hung up. Not one second later, my phone flared to life again. Her face lit up on my screen. When I pressed reject, she sent me a flurry of messages, all with the same worried tone. It took several texts and voice notes to assure her I was safe and fine.
As her last message came through, I ground my back teeth together.
Fallon: If you need a ride, call George. You know he’d come get you.
Yeah, he would. But calling him would interrupt the incredibly grown-up tantrum I was having where he was concerned.
Him.Him with the stupid beard and shoulders you want to hike your thighs over. Him with the dreamy blue eyes that look at you and imagine a white picket fence and three kids.
Drunk Rosie appeared to take over my body because before I was even aware of what I was doing, my thumbs pulled up his contact. Those same aqua eyes gleamed back at me from the photo I’d assigned to his name. It was of the twoof us the night we met. His hand looped around my waist, chin resting on top of my head as I pulled a ridiculous face, and he just smiled.That fucking smile.
Months. I’d not talked to him in months. Not since I saw his eyes light up when I entered the room. Not since his smile made my heart leap like a kid on Christmas morning. Not since I realised how dangerous he was to my self-control, and I realised that keeping my distance was best for everyone.
He didn’t want me. He didn’t know me well enough to want me. And no matter how much my body tried to convince me otherwise, I didn’t want him either, not like that.
‘Rosie?’ a masculine voice called out over the muted din of the club. I nearly jumped out of my skin, sending my phone flying until my reflexes kicked in, and I caught it.
‘Rosie!’ The voice got louder.
Peeling my phone from my chest, I let out a groan.What the fuck?Had I really been so lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t realised that Drunk Rosie had pressed his contact?Fuck.
Bringing the phone to my ear, I bit my lower lip again, the sharp tang of metal filling my mouth. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’ His sleep-laced tone caused my stomach to twist with guilt. ‘Rosie, are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ I breathed.
A relieved sigh filtered down the line. ‘You called me.’ The note of disbelief caught me off guard.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘It’s two in the morning.’
‘Did you just answer to state the obvious?’ I snapped.
Being a bitch was a comfortable place—one where I often rested. It’s easier than opening up that box inside, the one with the giant label slapped on the side:Emotions.
