Chapter 16
Beau
Iwake up feeling heavy. Heavy everywhere. My limbs are weighted down by my choices from last night, and my gut is churning like the open ocean is sloshing around in there. Most importantly, though, my eyelids are glued shut, fused together with gunk and sleep and bad decisions.
I try to stretch, to yawn and force my eyelids apart, but the movement makes my stomach lurch, and suddenly I’m scrambling to the bathroom.
My feet slide comically against the hardwood and across the tile as I fall to my knees with a crash.
I empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet, which, if I remember correctly, consist purely of bottom-shelf vodka and cheap beer.
I don’t think I even got a greasy hamburger to soak up the alcohol at any point in the night.
“Are you okay?” Milo stands just outside the open door, not really looking in. I wouldn’t want to see this mess either, so I can’t really blame him. But fuck, what I wouldn’t give to have him running his fingers through my hair or in big circles on my back.
“I’m—burp—” I lose the internal battle again, spilling my metaphorical cookies into the toilet. I was going to tell him I’m fine, but clearly that’s not true. Clearly I’m a sloppy, hungover mess.
To my surprise, Milo actually walks into the bathroom and crouches behind me.
He rubs soothing circles on my back, shushing me and my incoherent blubbering.
Tears run down my face, and he wipes them away.
I want to lean back into his touch, but another bout of vomit spills out of me. The tears spring back to my eyes.
I hate throwing up.
So much.
“Let me go get you something that’ll make you feel a million times better.” He abandons me, and I continue to groan into the porcelain bowl, burping and puking in tandem.
I hear a loud whirring that feels like nails rattling around in my head and continue to upchuck every ounce of alcohol I threw back last night. Fuck, I feel disgusting.
When hangovers were created to punish us for having a good time, I wonder if anyone imagined it would feel like the reverse of the night before. Instead of throwing drinks back, I’m throwing them up.
Lovely thoughts to have with my head buried in a toilet.
When I’m finally, thankfully, done vomiting everything I’ve ever eaten or drunk, I stumble out to the kitchen. The romantic sunlight is practically blinding. I cover my eyes and hiss a little.
His laugh, normally one of my favorite sounds, screeches through my skull.
“Shut up, you banshee.”
“Hurtful,” he mutters, but I swear my hearing is supersonic right now. I can pick up every hitch of breath, every clink of kitchen equipment, and every whispered word.
He slides a glass of the nastiest-looking liquid I’ve ever seen toward me. I lift it to my nose and give it a cautious sniff.
Huh.
It smells pretty good, actually.
I pinch my nose, ready to throw back the most disgusting-looking drink ever.
He walks around the island and pulls my fingers away from my nose. I try to shake him off, but he laughs again and really looks at me. His eyes say trust me, and I want to. I want to believe he won’t hurt me, that he’s safe. So I do.
I let him hold my hand as I throw back a drink that looks exactly like what I just threw up.
The drink is shockingly bright, spicy, fresh, and smooth. There’s a sweetness that tastes almost tropical, followed by a warm, zippy sharpness. He lets go of my nose and I keep gulping.
“What is this?” I ask, staring down at the half-full glass.
“It’s this hangover cure I’ve made for the guys after a particularly rough night.
” He lists off the ingredients. “The ginger helps with nausea, and orange and lemon help with liver support. Turmeric does too. The pineapple helps with inflammation, and the cucumber helps with hydration. Finally, the coconut water and salt bring the electrolytes.” He lifts the container of juice again, and I nod fervently, holding out my glass for a refill.
I sip the rest of the juice while he messes with something on the stove.
“What are you making?” I ask, walking up behind him and leaning my head against his back.
He’s shirtless in the kitchen again, like he is every morning, but something about this morning hits me differently.
My mouth waters a little as I take in my roommate’s bare, muscled back, glistening in the morning sunlight.
Sunlight that was excruciating to look at only a moment ago.
He pauses, his arm halting mid-motion with the spatula, and I can feel him take a deep breath before he starts moving again, shuffling something around in the pan. I lift my head and rest my chin on his shoulder, looking at the source of the delicious, salty smell.
Hash browns.
Thank all that is holy and good.
I grab his face and kiss his cheek with an exaggerated smack.
“Thank you, Milo. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I need greasy potatoes like I need to breathe this morning.
He laughs, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, a wicked grin taking over his face. It curls his pretty lips and crinkles his eyes. His face looks so naturally lovely like this.
“Seriously, this is exactly what I needed this morning.” I look down at the open carton of eggs and start peering around for another pan.
“What are you looking for?” he asks.
“I’m going to help with breakfast,” I say matter-of-factly. I crack an egg into the pan and immediately the shell crumbles in. “Fuck.” I reach in and fish it out. “I swear I can handle scrambled eggs.”
I feel the flush starting at my chest, like a warm hug that rises up my neck and blooms across my cheeks. I tuck my chin, trying to hide it from him. He doesn’t seem to notice, so I keep breaking eggs into the pan.
We stand there, side by side, in a gentle silence. My head no longer feels like it’s ringing like a bell, and I can simply enjoy the company I’m in.
He continues to push around the fried potatoes while I push around the scrambled eggs, and I feel fucking good just standing here next to him.
“So,” Milo starts. I can hear the wariness in his voice. He’s bringing something up that he desperately doesn’t want to talk about, something he thinks I don’t want to hear, and I have a feeling I know exactly what it is.
“Don’t—” I try to start, but he raises a hand to stop me.
“I know”—he tries again—“that you probably don’t want me to bring this up.” And he’s right. “But I think we should talk about it.”
I roll my eyes internally, maybe externally too.
“I know,” his voice is a bit exasperated, “that this is the last thing you want to talk about this morning.”
“So why are we talking about it?” I ask, throwing my hands up in irritation. He’s not wrong. I really don’t feel like talking about it. Something about last night just brought out something bad in me, and I drank too much. That should be the whole conversation.
“It’s not good to hide behind drinking, Beau,” he states matter-of-factly.
And I know he’s right. Mom would always hide behind her chardonnay, and Dad certainly still does. But that’s not what I’m doing.
I’ve always enjoyed a drink with the boys after a game, win or lose. Celebrate or commiserate. And I want to be friends with these guys, not just with Milo.
And sure, yeah, I was a little heated watching Jamie flirt with him. It made my blood boil. But that’s normal, just jealousy. Not something deeper.
I’m an only child. I don’t like sharing my toys.
I tell Milo just the bits about wanting to make friends, not the parts about Jamie. I’m sure he got enough of my sad blubbering about that last night.
Our moment is interrupted by the sudden, blaring ring of my phone. I jog back to my room to grab it from the side table and groan when I see Christian Grady’s name lighting up the screen.
I almost don’t answer. I want to stay here in this bubble of hash browns and gentle silence. But the name on the screen makes my stomach drop.
Fuck, my agent.
I slide my thumb over the answer button and bring the phone to my ear.
“Grady, hey,” I say, feigning interest in whatever the hell he’s calling about. Honestly, he’s probably about to lay into me for last night’s game. Who needs shitty parents when I’ve got a shithead agent ready to pick apart everything I did wrong?
“Benny,” he starts, and I don’t correct him. It bugs me, sure, hearing the old nickname, but not enough to pick a fight with a fifty-year-old man. “We’ve got some things we need to talk about.”
I sigh and brace myself, ready for the hit.
“Look, kid,” he says, sounding… nervous. And suddenly, I’m not so sure where this is going anymore. “I can’t be your agent anymore.”
Everything screeches to a halt.
Because I may not like the guy, but he’s been my agent since juniors. He was a friend of my mom’s who signed me as a favor to her.
And until now, he’s kind of been my only connection to her.
“What—”
I can practically hear him lift a hand to stop me.
“Kid, I don’t want to get into the logistics of it. Just trust me, I can’t be your agent anymore.” He sounds exasperated, as if I’m the one causing problems here. As if he’s not the one dropping me without a single explanation.
“I know I played kind of shitty last night…” I start, but he cuts me off.
“It’s not your gameplay. You were on fire.”
He’s not wrong. We may have lost, but it wasn’t because of anything I missed. The other team just played better. But…
But now I know for a fact something is up. He never compliments me, and now I know why. He’s been waiting for an excuse to cut me loose.
“What is this?” I ask, determined to figure it out. Determined to understand why this man is firing me completely out of left field.
There’s a long, drawn-out silence. So long I almost ask him again.
“I’m seeing Bianca, and it—” He’s still talking, but nothing else is registering. All I can hear is this faint buzzing as his words settle.
“Wait, what are you saying?” I press the phone hard against my ear, my face pinched.
There’s almost no way I heard him correctly.
Because if he really is saying that he, a man in his fifties, is sleeping with Bianca, a woman in her mid-twenties, I’m going to lose my shit. Did he take advantage of her?
Of fucking course he did. The old creep. God, I should have fired him ages ago.
“It’s a conflict of interest,” Grady’s smarmy voice explains. Fuck, has he always sounded like such an asshat?
“You probably should have been more conflicted about fucking my ex.” I somehow manage to keep my voice calm despite the fact that I’m teeming with rage. I can feel my face getting hot and my brows pinching.
“Please don’t talk about Bianca—” His voice is dripping with condescension, but I’m not about to let him continue.
“I’m not gonna shit on B for being taken advantage of, you old prick.”
This conversation isn’t going anywhere, so I hang up on him. I guess I need a new agent.
I don’t know if she wants this. If he pursued her, or if she… No, I can’t think like that. She deserves better than me assuming the worst.
I dial Bianca, the number still memorized from years together.
“B, I just got a call from Grady. Can you call me back? I’m not mad, just concerned.” I try to keep my voice level, but I know some of the frustration is leaking in.
I was wrong earlier. Turns out this was what I didn’t want to talk about.