Chapter 21
AVERY
The pounding headache and churning stomach weren’t unusual. Lately, they’d been constant companions more mornings than not, if not quite this viciously.
The shame, though—that was new.
As I sat back against the cold bathroom wall, hoping I was done getting sick, I couldn’t even put my finger on why I was so excruciatingly ashamed, only that I was. Or why my skin crawled beneath the club clothes I was still wearing.
I groaned into the silence and kneaded my temples. I must’ve done something awful while I was drunk. Hopefully no one had videoed it. That club had a no-camera policy, so there was that.
The club. Right. I was dressed like this because I’d been out drinking myself numb while I looked for someone to drill me into oblivion.
I knew immediately I hadn’t been laid. I may or may not have remembered anything that happened, but my body made it pretty clear that there hadn’t been any sex last night.
No telltale aches or twinges. And… somehow I just knew.
My memory of last night was piecemeal, with lots of drinking, dancing, and some kissing, but that was as far as it had gone.
That wasn’t a blank spot in my memory—it hadn’t happened.
So what had happened?
I wasn’t going to figure that out until I’d had a shower and some coffee, so I hauled myself onto my feet, flushed the toilet, and stripped out of my clothes. Then I dragged myself into the shower, which helped a little. Coffee would help a lot more.
In a pair of gym shorts and an old tank top, I managed to get my stupid ass down the stairs… only to very nearly tumble off the bottom step.
From my couch, Peyton watched me. He was also still wearing what he’d had on last night, minus his shoes.
How do I know what he was wearing last night?
That answer came fast—he’d picked me up at the club. I didn’t remember how he’d known I needed a ride, or if he’d just shown up and taken me home, but I knew I’d come back with him.
But why the hell was he still here?
“Uh. Hi.” I cleared the last step. “You’re still—You stayed over?”
He nodded, pushing himself to his feet. “Didn’t seem like I should leave you alone.”
I died a little inside. “Do I even want to know why?”
Peyton’s laugh was soundless and gentle. “Pretty sure your hangover is a clue.”
“Yeah, I know I got drunk. But…” I grimaced. “What did I do?”
“I don’t know.” He slid his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “You texted me and asked me to pick you up. So I did.”
That wasn’t the whole story. I could see it in his eyes and the way they couldn’t quite stay on mine.
I avoided his gaze. “Do you, um… Do you want some coffee?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
We silently moved into my kitchen. At least coffee didn’t require too many brain cells to make. I was too hungover for anything more complicated than working a Keurig, and way too distracted by my unexpected houseguest.
With coffee cups in hand, we returned to the living room.
The living room where Peyton had slept. After bringing my ass home from… wherever I’d been.
I surveyed the couch. He’d used the afghan that had been draped over the back, and he’d arranged some throw pillows for his head. Fresh guilt twinged in my stomach; how much of a mess had I been last night that I’d let him sleep like that?
“Sorry,” I murmured as I sat on one end of the couch. “I, um… I should’ve put you in the guest room, or…” I shook my head and stared into my coffee.
“It’s all right.” He shifted a little, and I winced when I realized he was twisting a crick out of his back.
God, he must’ve been miserable; this couch was comfortable for watching movies and stuff, but it wasn’t great for sleeping on.
I hadn’t been too worried about that when I’d bought it, because… guest room.
Jesus. I was seriously batting a thousand when it came to this man.
I swallowed some coffee and made myself look at Peyton. “Any chance you can fill me in on last night?”
I fully expected an eyeroll and a scoff, followed by some comment about what a trash fire I was.
Except that wasn’t really how Peyton rolled; I was probably just projecting because…
Well, because I was a trash fire, and I didn’t imagine I was fooling anyone about that anymore. Least of all this man.
Peyton took a sip of his own coffee. “Like I said, you texted me and asked me to come get you. From a club.”
“Oh God,” I croaked. “And I don’t remember much of it, so I must’ve been shitfaced.”
“You were,” he acknowledged gently. “But you weren’t… I mean, you were drunk. But you weren’t, like, belligerent or anything.”
“I guess that’s a plus.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. “I’m sorry. I appreciate you coming and getting me. But… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Better than driving yourself.”
“Yeah.” I dropped my hand into my lap. “I… kind of remember not wanting an Uber driver or something to see me like that, either.”
Peyton held my gaze. “How much do you remember?”
A lot that I didn’t need him to know about, but I didn’t say that. Bits and pieces of last night were coming back, though. “I just remember dancing at the club, and then feeling like I didn’t want to be there anymore.” I shook my head. “The rest…”
Peyton leaned forward to put his coffee cup on a coaster. As he sat back, he wrung his hands in his lap. “I remember it a little more clearly.”
My stomach dropped. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but as I put my own coffee cup down, I asked anyway: “What do you remember?”
“You told me you were too drunk to drive, and to be at the club.” He swallowed. “When I asked why you were that drunk, you said you’d come to the club because you didn’t want to be alone. You said you were in a bad space, so hooking up didn’t seem like a good idea.”
Well, at least I hadn’t been completely out of my head.
“I… kind of remember that, now that you mention it. Not wanting to be alone, but being in a bad space.” I let my shoulders drop.
“Last night was a bad night. I definitely shouldn’t have been drinking.
I’m just glad I wasn’t stupid enough to go home with someone. ”
I shuddered at the thought, vaguely aware that that possibility had been on the table at some point.
I couldn’t remember a specific face—faces?
—only that something had definitely happened.
Something that had to do with this skin-crawly feeling the shower hadn’t been able to wash away.
Good thing I’d come to my senses, and despite the humiliation of facing Peyton now, thank God I’d thought to text Peyton.
And that he’d been willing to come get me.
I turned to him, furrowing my brow. “You didn’t have to stay the night.”
He shrugged and picked up his coffee for a quick sip. As he put it back down, he said, “I was worried. I… I mean, I didn’t think you’d had enough to have alcohol poisoning or anything. But I felt weird about leaving.”
Renewed shame twisted behind my ribs. “Was I that bad?”
Another shrug. “Might’ve been a little jumpiness on my part. I… worry about people when they’re drunk, especially if they’re not in a good place mentally.” He turned a sheepish look on me. “I didn’t want to intrude or stay when I wasn’t invited. I just… wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“No, it’s fine. Probably for the better anyway.” When alarm registered in his expression, I quickly added, “Because I was obviously a mess. You couldn’t have known how bad I was.”
That seemed to assuage some of his worry. “You’re good now, though?”
Oh, wasn’t that a complicated question?
“Well, I’m not drunk anymore.” I grimaced as I brought up my coffee for another swallow. “I feel like shit, so I’m…” I wanted to say this would probably keep me from getting drunk again any time soon. I wondered if he would believe that any more than I did.
“I have a question,” he said, voice still soft. “Just… yes or no, okay?”
I gritted my teeth as I put my coffee cup down. “Okay.”
He studied me for a long, painfully silent moment before he whispered, “Last night—was that about Leif?”
The dam didn’t break this time.
It shattered.
The sound of my best friend’s name, wrapped in genuine concern from someone who’d apparently seen right through the mess I’d been last night, smashed all the defenses I’d been holding up for too damn long.
Crying sucked under the best of circumstances. When I was already hungover and miserable, it fucking hurt.
But I’d have been lying if I said it wasn’t a million times easier when Peyton collected me in his arms and started stroking my hair.
As miserable as I was, as bad as I was hurting, I reveled in being wrapped up in strong arms that held me together even while I broke apart.
Gentle fingers stroked my hair. Soft words propped me up almost as much as his solid frame.
And for the first time since my best friend’s widow had collapsed in my arms, I leaned on someone else.
I let the grief and the guilt and all those other awful feelings crash over me, same as I had so many times, except I didn’t have to hold myself up.
I didn’t have to care about pulling it together and hiding all the evidence before showing my face to other people, because the jig was up now.
Peyton knew what a mess I was, and he was just holding on and letting me fall apart the way I’d so desperately needed to for so damn long.
After I had no idea how long, I finally collected myself and sat up.
Peyton kept a hand on my shoulder, studying me with an expression full of nothing but gentle concern.
No judgment. No Jesus fuck, man up already.
When he was apparently sure I could hold myself up, he withdrew his hand, but he didn’t slide away from me.
There was plenty of room on this couch for us to put some serious distance between us if he wanted that. He stayed where he was, though.
I was a goddamned mess. It took a couple of tissues to take care of that, and a swig of cooling coffee helped, too.