I swing my feet onto the floor and attempt to stand. The room tilts to a thirty-five-degree angle and gradually rights itself. I groan quietly and stagger to the bathroom. I stepfrom timber to tiled floor, expecting to feel a smidgeon of respite from the change, but there’s none.
The tile is as warm as the timber.
The thermostat is well and truly fucked. What a nightmare.
I swish a mouthful of water and spit it out. The room tilts again, this time in the opposite direction.
I’d love to brush my teeth, but I have a feeling that bending over or moving my head in any direction won’t serve me well until I’ve introduced copious amounts of caffeine into my bloodstream. Instead, I push up my sleeves and shuffle down the hall barefoot.
I arrive in the living room in time to see Branson take a step back from the fireplace to admire his work. I gape in disbelief. This is the problem with outdoorsy men. This is the exact problem—they’re obsessed with fire, no matter how warm it is. Pyromaniacal tendencies that have been normalized. That’s what I think it is.
“Are you okay?” Branson asks, turning slowly to face me.
His expression is impassive, but I can’t help noticing that his nostrils flare when he sees me. It’s not a quick flare either. Not a flicker, like I’m used to. It’s a broad flare on the back of a blistering gaze. He looks away quickly, turning his head toward the window. I follow his line of sightand notice it’s still snowing outside. The world around me is white. An icy wonderland that can only be achieved at temperatures at or below freezing.
What the hell is going on?
I swallow a dry, painful gulp as I watch Branson pad to the kitchen. He’s wearing flannel pajama pants—obviously—thick socks, and a sweater.
Why isn’t he boiling?
I blink numbly as panic begins to take root.
No!
Dear God, no!
No. This can’t be happening.
It’s impossible.
No, no. There’s no need to panic. It’s the hangover. It has to be. I took my suppressant last night. I did. I’m sure of it. I distinctly remember thinking I’d take a double dose before I went to bed. Of course I took it.
But there’s no harm in checking.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” I say, adopting a very formal, distinctly British-sounding accent.
I book it down the hall before Branson has time to reply. As soon as I get to my room, I close the door firmly and lock it.
Okay, think. Think, think, think. Did you take your fucking tablet last night?
I wrack my brain, but my memory is disjointed. I can’t remember brushing my teeth or washing my face, but I do remember Branson guiding me to my room. He walked behind me with his arms stretched out on either side of me, as though he were expecting me to lose my balance. I thought it was hilarious at the time. When I got to my door, I spun around with flair, cupped my hands to my mouth, and said, “Psst, Branson. You have tattoos.”
Then I winked.
Humiliation rushes to my face, forcing nauseating heat up my cheeks
I fly into the bathroom and unzip my toiletry bag, rifling through it with urgency. My legs go lame when I find multivitamins, three types of serum, an antibiotic ointment for minor cuts and lacerations, but not the little tin I keep my Suppressetine in.
Jesus fucking God, this cannot be happening.
Wait.
There!
Thank you, Lord.
False alarm. It was a false alarm. Relax. Everything’s fine. Oh, thank goodness. I knew it would be fine. I packed my suppressant. Of course I did. I’d never forget it. I’d literally rather travel for a month without a charger for my Kindle than leave my Suppressetine at home.
