“Well, I should head home. Nice to meet you,” she says, then quickly walks down the street.
“What was that about?” I ask, plopping down next to Rowan.
“Nothing. Literally nothing.”
I know not to ask anything else about it, recognizing a cue even when I’m drunk. Still, I can’t help but wonder why Rowan is watching her retreat, her hands wringing in her lap. Whether there can be something with this woman or not, the way Rowan is watching her is definitely not nothing.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I just wanted to say I’m here if you need anything,” Rowan says.
All I can manage is a nod, and like I did, she takes that as a sign to leave it alone. Instead, she chooses to bring up another taboo subject.
“Callahan told me about you two.”
“There is no us two.” I lean back on my elbows, letting my long ponytail touch the ground.
“Right? So the dancing before?”
“Just dancing.”
“And the look in your eyes now?”
Rolling them should erase whatever she is seeing.
“I sort of know why you won’t date him, but I don’t really know the reasoning behind it.”
Deciding this conversation is going to ruin my drunkenness, I abruptly stand.
“I know you are looking out for him, but can we have this conversation another day?”
“Sure,” she says, standing too.
We help each other into the apartment and walk over to the drink table together. I choose vodka, trying to offset the urge to fuck someone tonight. It works enough that when it’s time to go home, Farrah is the one I walk out with.
But it doesn’t stop me from dancing on Rowan’s coffee table, finally feeling a bit of that old spark I missed. A sliver of that piece of myself I thought I lost. I try to hold on to it for the rest of the night, even when the gin has me texting Charlie to fuck-off when he starts blowing up my phone.
Chapter 11
Gettingangrytextswhenyou’re hungover is worse than the headache and throwing up. I have no energy or want to argue with Charlie about the fact that I’ve had sex with another man. When he cuffs me, then we can have a conversation about who I shouldn’t sleep with, but right now, no one can tell me what to do.
Finding that I’m ignoring him, he shows up at my door.
“I literally can’t,” I say, wobbling back to the couch.
Not able to make it up the stairs after that shit-show that was me trying to come in quietly at 4 a.m., my dad gave me water and guided me to the comfy gray pull-out he has had since I was in college.
“I’m not here to fight. I figured from your mumbled text that you probably need greasy food and a Gatorade.”
I perk up a little at the smell of the barbecue sauce. The bag tells me it’s likely Ray’s pulled pork sandwich.
“Bless you,” I say, taking the bag from him.
He plops down next to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. Too hungry to pay any attention to what he is doing, I scarf down the food and chug the drink the way I did green beer last night.
“Feeling better?”
I nod and curl into him. The food has me forgiving him. Or maybe it’s just the same old pattern we always fall into.
“Good. Do you mind if we spend the day together?”
