I groan loudly, pulling my pink comforter over my head when I’m startled by a knock on my bedroom door.
“Wakey wakey, Kate,” Jake calls out cheerfully.
Why in God’s name is he so joyful at this hour? He may not be hungover, but he got as little sleep as I did.
“Go away,” I mutter, hiding and unwilling to deal with the consequences of my own actions.
“I have coffee, chocolate croissants, and ibuprofen. Still want me to leave?”
“Ugh. No. Come in,” I reply, remaining buried in my bed as the door cracks open and the edge of my bed dips. “Why are you here so early?” I whine, wanting to know what in the hell possessed him to intentionally wake up at this hour on a Sunday.
“Because I had a feeling you’d be nursing a wicked hangover. Thought I could make it up to you by plying you with coffee and pastries.” His weight shifts, and then there’s the rustling of a paper bag opening. “Can you come out from under the covers so I can help you feel better?” He gently nudges me. “You’re about to benefit from my years of experience in treating hangovers.”
“This is all your fault,” I groan, throwing the covers off me and sitting up, resting my back against the headboard. “Give me coffee…and meds.” My forehead scrunches as the pain hits my eyes. Is this how vampires feel when they see the sun? It’s like a thousand tiny daggers are stabbing the center of my eye nonstop.
“As you wish, Kate.” He winks, handing over my cappuccino and a couple of ibuprofen tablets. “We’ll switch you to Pedialyte after you drink about half your coffee.” He passes me a warm chocolate croissant before taking a swig of his own drink.
I swallow down the medicine and take a sip of my coffee, wondering how he always seems to know what I need before I do.
“Why are you here?” I ask, trying to understand his motive for getting up so early to take care of me when he doesn’t have to. My own fiancé doesn’t treat me this well. A pit rises in my stomach, a combination of drinking too much and finally recognizing the sobering reality of where things stand with Brian.
He shrugs and takes another drink of his coffee. “I can’t take you out for an evening of fun and have you miserable the next day. You’ll never agree to any of my crazy plans again,” he replies, flashing me a grin and acting like what he’s doing isn’t a big deal. Just a friend helping out another friend in their time of need.
Yet, it feels like something more.
A promise that everything will be different this time. All I have to do is let him back in.
Allow him to become my best friend, trusting that he won’t hurt me again.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or hangover talking, but I’mthis closeto dropping my guard with him.
Sitting crisscross-applesauce on the couch, my wet hair is pulled into a bun as I wait for Chelsi to answer my FaceTime. I’ve taken it easy all day, trying to recover from my hangover and process all the conflicting feelings swirling inside me. I feel like I’m trudging through knee-deep mud emotionally and physically, unable to find a path out.
“What happened to you?” Chelsi asks. She scrunches her eyebrows and forehead, appraising my appearance.
I’ve intentionally kept her in the dark about the thoughts consuming me because I don’t want to admit them out loud and give them any validity. But that stops today. I can’t figure this out on my own, and Chelsi knows me best. She’s seen every aspect of my relationship with Brian over the years. I’m praying she can help me sort through what I’m feeling and separate reality from my insecurities.
I wince slightly, the volume of her voice sending a stab of pain through my temples. “Jake happened. We went out to a dive bar last night as part of his ‘fun to-do list,’ and I had one too many drinks.”
“Oh my God. Are you hungover?” Chelsi adjusts her phone, getting more comfortable on the sectional. “Please tell me you’re hungover. That you let loose enough to actually have fun and are suffering the consequences of your actions.”
“Pretty much,” I reply, rubbing my temples with my fingers to ease the tension. “Never going to do this again. I’m too old to feel like this.”
Chelsi chuckles and tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. “While I’d love to know more about your night of debauchery, I know that’s not why you wanted to talk. So, spill it.”
I blow out a deep breath and glance upward as I contemplate the best way to start. How to convey what I’m feeling to Chelsi without sounding like I’m losing my mind. Almost everyone loves Brian and tells me how lucky I am to have him in my life. What I’m about to say goes against what I’ve heard for years, so I’m not sure what she’s going to think. I’m equally scared she’s going to claim I’m overreacting, as I am that she’ll agree with my assessment of our relationship.
“I don’t know where to begin. My life is so fucking complicated, and I’m struggling to figure out how I feel aboutit all,” I reply, slouching on the couch cushion. “Wait…are you alone?”
“Yes, why? Shit. Is this about Brian?” Chelsi’s mouth drops open, and her eyes widen.
“Yeah. Things with him are really confusing. I can’t tell whether I’m reading too much into it or if these signs have been there all along, and I was too oblivious to see them.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, letting out another long, deep breath before filling her in on everything that’s happened over the past few weeks. A slow, steady stream of tears stings my eyes as I talk through how I’m starting to question why Brian wants to marry me, if he even loves me, whether I want to marry him, and if this is what I can expect for the rest of my life. For the most part, Chelsi is silent, except for an occasional question to clarify a specific incident. Her expression is neutral, refusing to give me any sign of how she’s reacting to this information and waiting until I’m fully done sharing my thoughts before responding.
“Okay. That’s a lot to take in,” Chelsi replies, cupping a hand around her jaw and looking down for a brief minute before meeting my gaze. “What do you need from me? Brutally honest, or supportive cheerleader?”
“Can I have both?”
