Chapter 12
I wake up with sand in my mouth, and there’s someone outside using a jackhammer that’s making my head pound.
No.
There’s no sand, no jackhammer. Just my own head attempting to explode itself, and my mouth so dry I can barely manage to swallow.
I grope around on my nightstand, where it seems I had the foresight to leave a glass of water for future Daisy, and chug. I stagger out of bed. I’m wearing my underwear and the camisole from last night, which is now a wrinkled mess. My bra is flung over the top of the television screen.
The first order of business is to address my bladder which is so full it may start leaking at any moment. I sit on the toilet, holding my head in my hands with my elbows resting on my knees. The drumbeat of pain continues unabated.
My God , what have I done to myself?
The rehearsal dinner is tonight, and I’m going to have to find some way to get myself back into working order before then. I rummage through the landfill of makeup on my vanity, and unearth my bottle of Advil. I take two and fill the toothbrush glass and swallow them. Then I fill it a second time and drink that. And then a third.
Back in the bedroom I peel the sticky silk from my body and, for some reason unknown to me, I sniff it and gag. It smells like old beer and sweat and possibly… rotten eggs? At this point, I’ve completely lost control of the endless personal belongings I decided to drag along with me, and I have to rummage through a pile on the ground to find a T-shirt, which I then pull onto my clammy body. I lie down in bed, pulling a pillow over my head in an attempt to smother the pain. It doesn’t work. I need coffee, and a big bowl of fruit, and eggs. I barely have the strength to make it back to the bathroom in the event that I need to pee again, and a hopeless groan escapes my lips. And then I remember where I am. And on whose dime.
Seized with new motivation, I scramble over to the desk where the room service menu sits untouched, and I dial them up and order myself a feast. Then I go back to bed and wake up thirty minutes later to a knock, and a very nice gentleman rolls a table into my room and begins lifting cloches from plates of various sizes. A decadent bowl of fresh berries is unveiled, as well as a plate of poached eggs over the avocado toast of my dreams. He sets up a French press of coffee and lays out silverware and a mug. A glass of fresh squeezed orange juice appears, and a basket of pastries.
“Is there anything else I can get for you, miss?” he asks me politely, after I’ve signed for the food and left an exceptionally generous tip (thanks, Michael), all while keeping his eyes carefully averted from my crotch region, because I’ve completely forgotten that I’m not wearing any pajama bottoms.
“Oh,” I say, pulling a sheet over my lap. “No, nothing… I mean, this is beautiful. You’re so kind. Thank you. Thanks so much.” The words continue to spill from my lips as he nods his head up and down, backing towards the door.
The food is delicious. I mean, really, really good. Good enough that I’m going to be thinking about this avocado toast for the rest of my life. And no, I’m not being dramatic.
When I’m stuffed and heavily caffeinated, I start to feel somewhat human again.
It’s eleven-thirty, and I know that if I exercise, I will feel better. The thought is as appealing to me as the notion of lying on a bed of nails, but I need the endorphins to counteract the damage I did to myself last night. I pull my hair up into a bun, squeeze myself into a sports bra and leggings, and head to the hotel gym.
The space is sleek and minimalist with light wood floors and frosted glass windows. The equipment is polished to the point of appearing unused, and I imagine someone labors over it every evening to keep it looking pristine. The same cucumber water from the lobby is stationed here as well, in addition to glass reusable water bottles for guests to take and fill to our heart’s content. Cool damp towels scented with lavender wait in a small glass refrigerator. At home I work out at the Y in a not-so-nice neighborhood, and the greatest luxury there is when I manage to avoid the plastic shower curtain sticking to my butt when I bend over to wash my feet.
Forty minutes and about a gallon of cucumber water later, I’m a new woman. I pat my forehead with a lavender towel. It’s undeniable—life really is easier with money. But for a reason I have yet to fully untangle, I’m still not interested. I’ll exercise at the Y for as long as my legs can carry me on a treadmill.
Despite the luxurious amenities offered in the gym, when I walk into the swanky, softly lit halls of the hotel, I look like a demon. Exercising with a hangover seems to have exacerbated my usual state of post-workout dishevelment. My face is as red as a stoplight from the high intensity cardio, I’m soaked in sweat and with the frizzy hair sticking up around my head, I might scare children. So, I do what any reasonable person does in this situation, and I book it to the elevator. When it arrives, it is mercifully empty, and I walk in and slouch against the wall as it carries me up to the fourth floor. How ironic that spending an hour working on my health makes me look like I’m dying.
The doors slide open, and I turn the corner down to my stretch of hall, and finally, I reach my room—so close to safety. So close to being tucked away alone with my shower and a robe. But, of course, due to the ongoing curse that seems to be haunting me, the next door down swings open, and Charlie comes striding out, dressed casually in slim-fit khakis and a dark polo shirt. He freezes when he sees me. My hand is on the door handle to my room. The door is two inches ajar. I could bolt in and slam it shut. But instead, I stand like a mannequin before him in all my tomatoey glory.
His eyes drop to my midriff and stay there for a moment before they dart back up to my very, very red face. “Good afternoon, Daisy,” he says lightly, and his lips twitch just a little.
“Hi,” I say chirpily. “Just got back from the gym.”
He's starting to really smile. Like he doesn’t want to, but he can’t help it. “I can see that. You look… worked out.” I see the gears turning in his head. He wants to make fun of me. He wants to so badly he’s having a hard time holding it back.
“My face is red,” I say, and then want to slam my head in the wall for saying something that inane.
“It is.” He nods. “You must go pretty hard.”
“I do what I can,” I say, attempting to affect a casual air.
“So, I’m glad I ran into you,” he begins, as though I’m not trying to stealthily sneak my way into my room one inch at a time.
“Why’s that?” I back into the doorway.
“Well, I figured that since I’m going to be your date tonight, I should probably get some details, and we should probably come up with a backstory and that sort of thing.”
My date?
Oh. My. God. Of all the details to forget about from last night, how, how could I have forgotten one so important? Me hanging on him, telling him how great he is, mooning over him—it all comes rushing back to me in a humiliating rip tide. The park bench, sitting up against him, letting him offer to be my date, and then actually accepting.
I’m standing with my jaw open and then remember to close my mouth. “Right,” I say gamely, as though I didn’t agree to this while nearly blacked out. “All of that makes sense.”
“Should we just do it now?” he suggests.
“Um. Now? Like right now?” I desperately need to go and hide, and maybe also sit on the floor of my shower.
“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “Why don’t I just come in for a second, and we can talk it through?”
I stare at him for a moment as I grasp about for a reasonable excuse. My room looks like a bomb went off in a department store, but how do I explain to a man that he can’t come in because there’s a bra hanging over the TV?
The moment stretches on until time has run out, and the word “Alright” comes out of my mouth of its own volition. I told you so, says the voice from last night and I snap back at it to do a better job next time.
I open the door all the way and walk in. Charlie follows me.
Seeing it through his eyes, it’s worse than I remember. Piles of clothes litter the bed and are strewn across the floor from me hunting for outfits that suit DC’s tropical climate. The overabundance of shoes that I packed lie in a heap inside of the open closet doors. The purple monstrosity is in the corner, overwhelming a luggage stand, with the lid hanging open limply, like it just gave up and vomited its contents all over the place.
I walk across the room, rigidly stepping over an upturned pair of stilettos in an attempt to pretend that nothing is amiss here, and set myself on the edge of a chaise situated in the corner with as much dignity as I can muster.
When Charlie is in the room, he covers his mouth with a hand.
He’s in shock. He’s seen this and he’s so shocked that he’s going to leave and he might just notify the front desk of a fire hazard.
His shoulders shake, and a snort escapes his nose, and then he’s buckling over in a full-on, gut-splitting belly laugh. “Oh, Daisy,” he says through tears, “I knew when I saw you hauling that thing out of the airport that it was unreasonably big.” He throws an arm up to point in the direction of my suitcase. “But I honestly never imagined how much could really fit in there.”
It’s time to defend myself. “Look. I was panic-packing, okay? You know what kind of pressure I’m under.”
“There’s a purple bra on your television set,” he says through hiccupping breaths and tears. “You have more shoes in this hotel room than I even own.”
“Okay, that’s enough. I realize it’s a gigantic mess, Okay? That’s why I didn’t want you to come in.”
It takes him a minute, but he sobers, and then he looks at me seriously. “Daisy. Are you a hoarder?”
“Go to hell,” I answer. I have now officially decided not to care, which seems to be a new skill I’ve developed that exclusively applies to Charlie.
“There’s treatment, you know. Therapy. Medications. There are answers out there for you.”
I fling a throw pillow at him which he catches in one hand, and then sits at the foot end of the chaise, facing me.
“Alright. I’m finished. I promise.”
I look at him skeptically.
“Really finished. Honestly.”
“Okay,” I answer.
“So, what’s the plan for tonight?”
I explain about the cocktail reception and the town cars to the fancy rooftop restaurant.
He lights up. “Oh, I know that place! Great oysters.”
And then I tell him which of Rob’s aunts and uncles to look out for, what Rob looks like, and the way my mother likes to give my boyfriends a thorough once-over when she meets them, to make sure they pass muster.
“Are there any, like, skeletons in closets that I should know about? Touchy subjects?” I give him a frank look, and he presses his lips together. “Right.”
“Yeah, I think you already know about the touchiest subject of all time. You would have to try pretty hard to stick your foot in your mouth.”
“Okay, well, in that case, I’ll come pick you up before the cocktails, and we’ll go down together?”
I experience a moment of disbelief that he’s actually agreeing to do this. That I’m allowing him to do this. But at that moment, as the plan is laid, a flood of gratitude pours through me.
“Thank you for doing this, Charlie.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he says with the wave of a hand.
“No, I really mean it. Thank you.”
“Daisy,” he says in that way he has of using my name to signal something very sincere. “I told you. It’s my pleasure.”
His tone sends a wash of heat through me, and if my face weren’t already scarlet, it would be now.
I usher Charlie Bond out of my room as quickly as I can after that, shoving on his back as he goes as slowly as possible so he can examine the contents of my various piles. He stops to pluck my bra off the TV and tosses it at me with an evil grin. But eventually, I manage to maneuver him out the door so that I can peel my sweaty clothes from my body and finally get in the shower and wash last night and this morning off of me.