Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The morning light sliced through the blinds into my skull. I groaned as I burrowed deeper into the pillow, willing the hangover away. My stomach churned with shame and unprocessed whiskey, and my mouth tasted like I’d filled it with dryer lint before going to bed.
I was getting too old to drink more than a cocktail or two, and certainly too old to swig Jack Daniel’s straight from the bottle.
Memories from the night before leaked into my mind. My cheeks heated as the humiliation and emotional hangover burned through me. I’d lost my shit at the bonfire and then tried to drunkenly seduce Merrick.
“What was I thinking?” I groaned. My hoarse voice echoed off the walls of the empty bedroom where I’d yet to hang a single painting or picture. I stared at the stack of half-unpacked boxes in the corner as I prayed the night before had been just a bad dream.
The anniversary of Alec’s death hung over me like a storm cloud every year, and Merrick had sat with me in the dark as I unraveled—not trying to fix or dismiss it.
He just let it be. And for the first time, I saw the man behind the stoic mask with his own unguarded grief, and it was like looking into a mirror.
He knew what it was to live life carrying a broken heart and a ghost on your back.
It'd been three years, and I still hadn’t been on a real date.
Hell, I couldn’t even talk to Alec’s sweet mom on the phone.
The grief was a dam, and I couldn’t dare let it breach.
The regret would drown me. So I just kept stacking sandbags—work, hard liquor, and my dark humor—to keep the water at bay. To keep myself from drowning.
I needed to apologize. To both of them. My grief and guilt weren’t burdens I liked to share.
I fumbled for my phone with clumsy hands, gripping it as I tried to decide who to text first. Both situations left my face feeling hot and my hands clammy.
Me:
Hey. I’m sorry about last night.
Merrick’s response came before I could set my phone down.
Merrick:
Don’t stress, I understand better than anyone.
Right. Don’t stress. I just threw myself at you last night like the club groupies Eva told me about—sweetbutts. Ugh.
One apology down, one to go. Might as well finish my tour before my coffee. Rip it like a Band-Aid.
Me:
Hey, sorry I overreacted last night.
Hope you’ll still be my friend after my little menty-b.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe the shame and embarrassment would evaporate through my pores with the whiskey. My phone chirped as his response came through.
Hatchet:
Good morning, doll. Eva explained everything. Wanna grab brunch? I can swing by and pick you up in 30.
I smiled. His easy-going nature filled the hollow emptiness in my chest with warmth.
Me:
I would love that, but make it an hour. I smell like bad decisions.
Hatchet:
My favorite scent on a woman.
I dragged my aching body to the bathroom.
While the water warmed, I studied myself in the mirror.
God, I was a mess. I stared at my bloodshot eyes, smudged eyeliner, and tangled hair for a moment before pulling the shirt I’d worn yesterday over my head.
I breathed in the scent of bonfire before dropping it to the floor and stepping under the spray.
I let the water scald my skin as I tried to scrub away the memory of Merrick’s gentle rejection. He’d done the right thing, but it didn’t make it any less mortifying.
I didn’t feel much better about how I’d left things with Hatchet.
He couldn’t have known that the combination of his unexpected touch and the mention of Taylor Swift would rip a memory to the surface that gutted me.
A tear slipped down my cheek as I pressed Alec from my mind into that box of feelings I couldn’t deal with.
I stepped out of the shower and sighed.
Standing before my closet, I sought the most aggressively platonic outfit I could find.
High-rise black jeans, a faded Good Charlotte concert tee from high school, and battered running shoes.
I swiped on mascara and slipped on my glasses, hoping to hide the circles under my eyes that left me looking like a delirious raccoon.
I heard a honk, and my phone pinged with a text that let me know Hatchet waited outside. I threw my wet hair in a high ponytail and grabbed my purse before rushing out the door.
Hatchet leaned against the side of his truck, the morning sunlight catching on the sandy stubble along his jaw. His easy-going grin melted the tension in my shoulders.
Brunch with Hatchet might just be the hangover cure I needed.