Like I should have done in the beginning.
FORTY-SEVEN
Eric
? Falling - Harry Styles ?
My head is fucking pounding. I open my eyes and immediately close them again, groaning and burying my head into the pillows because the light filling the room is entirely too bright.
Shit, do I have a migraine? Whatever the fuck this is, it’s not your average headache. It almost feels like…
No. No, there’s no way.
I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom, rifling through the bottles of medicine until I find the Advil. I dump four into my hand and turn to head to the kitchen for some water, pausing as realization hits me.
Why am I in the bedroom? Where’s Tyler?
I open the door, and the smell of bacon assaults my nose, the sound of it sizzling in the pan follows soon after. I ease down the hallway and see Ty at the stove in her pajamas, hair pulled into a messy bun on the top of her head.
She turns her attention to me as I step into the space and smiles so wide it takes me by surprise. But what really throws me for a loop is when she wraps her arms around my shoulders and leans in for a kiss.
I grip her by the elbows and lean away from her.
“Woah, what are you doing?” I ask, confused as fuck.
“What do you mean what am—” she goes from looking confused to pissed to hurt so fast I can barely keep up. She tears her arms from my hold and backs away.
Shit. Did we…no. No. We couldn’t have. Could we? I swear to God, if we finally slept together again and I can’t remember it—
“What the fuck happened last night?”
She lets out a deep sigh and closes her eyes, and the pain on her face is enough to knock the air from my lungs.
“You drank half a bottle of tequila,” she says, returning her attention to the pan of bacon on the stove.
Fuuuuuck. Five years of sobriety down the drain. Why? I’d been through some shit since I quit drinking and, even though I’d been tempted, I hadn’t used alcohol as a fix. Not since the day Amy died.
What could possibly have sent me down that path? I run a hand down my face and sit myself down at the table as Ty puts a plate of bacon, sausage, eggs, and toast in front of me. The sight of it simultaneously making me want to throw up and my mouth water.
I rest my elbows on the table and put my face in my hands. How did this happen?Think, damn it. What do you remember?I remember playing the show. I remember not being able to find Tyler backstage. I remember coming back here to look for her and then…and then…
Nothing.
The last thing I remember is coming here, terrified I was going to find a note on the table and her bedroom empty.
“I’m sorry,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “For whatever I said or did last night. Before I got sober, I said and did a lot of shit I shouldn’t have when I was under the influence, so it’s probably best that you ignore everything that happened.”
“You truly don’t remember anything?” she asks. I look over at her, leaning against the counter, arms folded across her chest, staring right into my eyes. I look away and shake my head.
“No, I…I’m sorry,” I say. With the look she’s giving me, I knowsomethinghappened, and I can’t decide if I’m glad or pissed that I don’t remember what it was.
Without a word, she pushes off the counter and walks back to the bedroom, the door slamming shut behind her.
Fuck.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and look through my texts, calls, and photos, hoping to find something,anything, that will clue me in on what the actual fuck happened. Other than texts and calls to Tyler, there isn’t much to go on.
I eat as much of the breakfast as I can force down without throwing up, before stepping outside for some fresh air. I pull my Ray Bans down over my eyes to block out the sun, but they’re almost useless against the pounding in my head. I walk around the city surrounding the arena, wracking my brain, all but begging it to remember something.
