Chapter 17 Liv
LIV
Something warm is pressed against my back, and for a blissful moment between sleep and consciousness, I think I'm dreaming.
There's an arm draped over my waist, fingers splayed across my stomach, and the steady rhythm of someone else's breathing against my neck.
It feels nice—better than nice, actually.
Safe and comfortable in a way I haven't felt in years.
I shift slightly, enjoying the sensation of being held, when my brain starts to catch up with my body.
This isn't my apartment in Manhattan. The mattress is too soft, too familiar, and there's that distinctive musty smell of my childhood bedroom—old wood and fabric softener and the faint scent of my mother's lavender sachets. And this isn't a dream.
My eyes snap open.
I'm definitely in my old bedroom at the farm, which means the warm body behind me is—
Oh God. Blair.
And I'm not wearing a shirt. I’m not even wearing a bra.
A wave of nausea hits me. My mouth feels like I've been chewing cotton balls soaked in cheap wine, and there's a persistent throbbing behind my eyes that suggests I may have had more than "a little bit too much" to drink last night.
Vague memories start trickling back in horrifying detail. The wine Emma smuggled from Mom's hiding spot. The way I felt watching Sailor laugh with Dad and Uncle Pete. The decision—God, the actual conscious decision—to walk over there and kiss her in front of them.
But it gets worse. So much worse.
More flashes surface like a horror movie playing in slow motion. Stumbling up the stairs with Sailor's steadying hand on my back. Her bringing me water and aspirin. And then—Fuck—I don't even know what happened after that.
The mortification is so complete that I actually make a small whimpering sound. Carefully, moving as slowly as possible to avoid waking her, I lift her arm from my waist and sit up to down the glass of water on my nightstand.
As I set the glass back down, trying to piece together exactly how much of an idiot I made of myself, I feel movement beside me.
"Good morning."
I freeze. "Morning."
There's a moment of silence, and then I hear a sharp intake of breath. Blair rolls onto her back, staring determinedly at the ceiling.
"Uh," she says, her voice slightly strained. "You might want to... you know. Cover up."
“Sorry.” I quickly pull up the covers. "Did we..." I start, then stop, not sure I actually want to know the answer. "Did you... I mean, did I..."
"Did we what?" she asks, turning back toward me.
"You know." I'm staring at her now, trying to read her. "Have sex. Did we...?"
"Of course not. You were drunk.”
"Are you sure? Because I'm not wearing much, and when I woke up you were all over me, and I don't really remember—"
"Liv." She interrupts me with an expression that's half amused, half annoyed. "Trust me. I did not take advantage of you. Not for lack of you trying, though."
I bury my face in my hands, wishing the bed would open up and swallow me whole. "Oh my God," I moan through my fingers. "I'm so sorry. I'm so embarrassed. What exactly did I do?"
Blair props herself up on her elbow and smiles. “Well, let’s just say you made some not-so-subtle moves on me."
"So I threw myself at my hired girlfriend. That's so inappropriate."
"It’s not a big deal. If anything, I’m flattered."
The matter-of-fact way she says it should be reassuring, but instead it makes me feel even more ridiculous. Here I am, spiraling into a pit of embarrassment, while she's acting like we're discussing the weather.
"You must think I'm pathetic," I mutter.
"I think you're hungover," she says. "And I think you're being way too hard on yourself."
"Easy for you to say."
"True," she agrees with a grin. "But I was the one who had to exercise superhuman restraint when a beautiful woman came on to me. So let's call it even."
Despite everything, I fight a smile.
"You think I'm beautiful?" I ask, then immediately want to take the question back.
Before she can answer, Mom calls from downstairs. "Livvy! Sailor! Breakfast is ready!"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I groan, letting my head fall back against the pillow. "I can't. I don't even know if I can move from this bed right now."
"Then stay there," Sailor says as she gets up. "I'll handle this."
She quickly changes into sweatpants and a T-shirt and runs her hands through her disheveled hair. Even hungover and mortified, I can't help but gawk at her.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
She takes my water glass, rummages around in the bathroom, and comes out with more aspirin. "Take this," she says. "I'll get you coffee and breakfast in bed."
As she disappears downstairs to face my family, memories surface in devastating waves.
I think I might have crawled across the bed and straddled her.
The images flash through my mind like a slideshow of humiliation, each one worse than the last. At least there's one silver lining in this disaster: I’m not the wedding planner today.