Chapter 13
The first thing that hits me when I open my eyes is a jackhammer pounding behind my skull, followed by a wave of nausea that sloshes through my entire body.
My mouth tastes like something died in it, and when I try to sit up, the room tilts dangerously, the walls swimming in slow, lazy circles around me.
Oh no. I’m going to hurl.
Panic seizes me as I realize I’ll never make it to the bathroom. Not with my legs feeling like overcooked spaghetti and my stomach already contracting to expel whatever churns inside.
Then I spot it, a plastic bucket parked beside my bed, as if some hangover fairy godmother anticipated my misery. I lunge for it, wrapping my arms around it like it’s a long-lost friend, then empty the foul, gin-flavored contents of my stomach with zero dignity.
“Never again,” I say to myself. It’s the same empty promise I’ve made after every regrettable night out.
Speaking of last night—what exactly happened? My memory feels like Swiss cheese, with gaping holes where important details should be. The bar. Wendy. Something about a guy...
My phone buzzes against the nightstand, the vibration amplified to earthquake proportions by my sensitive skull. Wincing, I reach for it, squinting at the screen.
It’s Wendy.
“Good morning!” Her voice chirps through the speaker, so cheerful it makes my teeth ache. “How’s the hangover?”
I rest my cheek on the bucket’s rim, pathetic and resigned. “Terrible,” I mumble. “I feel like I got hit by a truck, backed over, then hit again for good measure.”
Her laugh bursts through the phone, making me pull it away from my ear. “I figured. You shouldn’t drink so much. Wild ideas come to your head when you do.”
My stomach churns again, and I don’t think it’s not from the nausea this time. “What wild ideas? What did I do?”
“You don’t remember?” Wendy sounds far too amused. “You tried to prove some point about men by offering yourself up as a booty call to some random guy at the bar.”
“I what?” The spike in my own voice makes the headache pound harder.
“Don’t worry,” Wendy says. “Jake stepped in before you could fully lose your dignity. He even took you home.”
I feel like I’m going to throw up again.
“So, he...saw me like that?” My voice comes out small, mortified.
“Girl, everyone saw you like that,” Wendy says, not unkindly. “But it was Jake who made sure you got home safe.”
I glance at the bucket—now my most cherished possession—and groan. He must’ve foreseen this and left it here. Just thinking about how pathetic I must’ve looked worsens the pounding in my head.
“This headache will be the death of me,” I say.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a foolproof hangover cure. Mix coconut water with honey and fresh lemon juice. It’s magic. I swear on my grandmother’s secret peach cobbler recipe.”
Desperate enough to try anything, I grab a pen and scribble the remedy on the notepad by my bed. “You’re a lifesaver. Are we still carpooling to the party this Friday?”
“Absolutely! I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Just don’t let me drink again,” I beg.
After we hang up, I drag myself from the floor like a sewer creature emerging from the depths.
Water becomes my singular focus—my body craves it with desperate urgency.
With each unsteady step toward the kitchen, the thought of Friday’s anniversary party looms larger in my mind.
It’s a big deal—a chance to mingle with the bigwigs, impress the right people, and prove I belong at Lanter Bridge despite my mishaps.
Professional suicide isn’t on my agenda, no matter how wretched I feel.
Fumbling with my phone, I order the ingredients for Wendy’s miracle cure for delivery, while fragments of last night knit themselves back together in my throbbing head. Jake carrying me up the stairs. Jake tucking me into bed. Jake… seeing me at my absolute worst.
I’ve never wanted to crawl into a deep hole and never come out more than I do right now.
When the delivery arrives, I mix Wendy’s concoction with shaky hands and take a cautious sip, chasing it with two Tylenol. The tart sweetness slips down my throat, surprisingly pleasant, and I crawl back into bed.
Curling beneath the covers, I grab my phone and pull up the office number. There is no way in hell I’m facing Jake—or anyone else—not in this state. I’d rather jump naked into a snowbank.
After calling off work, I make the most sacred vow of my entire existence: I’m never drinking again.
***
Something smells musty and stale, like a high school gym bag left to ferment in summer heat, and horror dawns as I realize that funk is coming from me.
I lift both arms and take a cautious whiff. Eww. Last night’s decisions cling to my skin and tongue, practically begging to be scrubbed away. I smell like a distillery dumpster.
My gaze drifts to the alarm clock. 5:30 p.m.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, heart pounding from the effort, and shuffle toward the bathroom, moving carefully while my senses wobble out of alignment.
“A shower will fix everything,” I whisper to myself, the words rasping against my scorched throat. “Or at least fix the smell.”
In the bathroom, I peel off yesterday’s clothes and step into the shower stall, twisting the knob with a silent prayer for hot, cleansing water. The pipes groan and shudder, metal singing against metal in a way that sends warning bells clanging through my already sensitive head.
Definitely not a good sign.
From somewhere inside the wall comes a deep, guttural sound, like a lion clearing its throat. My fingers freeze on the knob. Before I can retreat, the pipes explode in rebellion, unleashing a frigid blast that slams into my face with the force of a garden hose.
I let out a sharp shriek as I scramble backward, arms flailing. The water feels like a thousand tiny needles piercing my skin. Desperately, I reach for the knob again, but the blast intensifies, spraying in all directions as something clearly breaks inside the wall.
Water cascades onto the floor, pooling around my frozen feet. With chattering teeth, I grab a towel, wrapping it around my shivering body while the bathroom transforms into Niagara Falls. My fingers, shaking both from cold and panic, fumble for my phone.
Jake will know how to fix this. Jake always knows how to fix things.
He answers after three rings. “Sarah?”
“Yes, come down! There’s a water explosion in my bathroom. Hurry.”
In what feels like seconds, the doorbell rings. Having barely managed to throw on sweatpants and a t-shirt, I rush to answer, leaving wet footprints across the apartment.
Jake bursts in, dressed to the nines in his work suit, his hair slightly mussed like he’s just come from work. His eyes widen as he takes in my soaked hair.
“Where?” he asks, already moving past me.
“Bathroom.” I follow him. “It won’t stop.”
Jake assesses the disaster zone, water now spraying from a crack in the pipe. His white shirt turns translucent instantly as he reaches into the spray, trying to locate the valve.
“Do you have any tools laying around?” he asks, wiping water from his face.
“Over there,” I gesture toward the corner of the living room. “My dad left his toolbox when I moved here.”
His jacket comes off in one fluid motion, tossed over the shower curtain rod. Sleeves rolled up to expose tanned forearms, he grabs the toolbox and charges back into the watery chaos.
The doorbell rings again. Heart still racing, I rush to answer it.
Lance stands in the hallway, brow furrowed with concern. My jaw drops at the sight of him, unexpected as a penguin in the desert.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I heard loud noises.” His eyes scan past me. “Came to check if you’re okay.”
After I give him a rushed explanation of my plumbing nightmare, we both dash back to the bathroom, where Jake drops into a crouch beneath the sink, water soaking through his once-pristine work clothes as he wrenches at the stubborn valve.
As I watch him work, an unexpected comfort washes over me—the way he tackled the problem without hesitation. Like he used to, back when we were—
I shake off the memory.
Lance crouches beside him, pointing a flashlight at the pipes. “Is that where it’s leaking?”
“It’s stuck,” Jake grunts, muscles straining against the valve.
Lance pushes Jake aside with a determined look, jumping in like a game show contestant. He snatches the wrench, twisting it at random points along the pipe. When that doesn’t work, he reaches for a hammer, improvising a plan that has absolutely nothing to do with plumbing knowledge.
The water continues its merry assault.
“Move,” Jake orders, shoving Lance back with his shoulder. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
With two wrenches working in tandem, Jake braces the valve body steady while turning the nut with controlled force.
The water sputters, slows, then stops, blessed silence rushing in to replace the hiss and spray of the broken pipe.
A triumphant grin splits his face as he looks up at my next-door neighbor.
I know that competitive look. Boys will be boys.
Lance rolls his eyes, defeated in this round of testosterone theater. “Call me if you need anything else,” he tells me, then makes his exit, shoulders rigid with wounded pride.
“You did it!” I bounce on my toes, lifting my hand for a high five. Jake’s palm meets mine with a satisfying smack, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
He grabs a clean towel from the rack and comes toward me, gently blotting my dripping hair. Our eyes meet, and for one electric moment, everything between us feels simple again, like it was in the past.
My breath catches as his fingers brush my cheek.
Old feelings stir, dangerous and tempting, like quicksand waiting to swallow me whole.
But reality claws its way back in. He broke my heart into pieces too small to ever fully gather.
I need to lock this fluttering thing away before it betrays me again.
“You should go now.” That’s all I can manage before I turn my back to him.
He doesn’t respond. Just…leaves.