Chapter 17 Hollis
Hollis
Hangovers can absolutely suck it. The only redeeming part of waking up this morning was rolling over and finding a glass of water, two painkillers, and a neatly folded note on my nightstand.
That small sliver of gratitude only lasts about five seconds as flashbacks from the night before come flooding in.
Some details are still a bit hazy, but as my comforter slides down my body and my bare chest is on display, the unfortunate highlight reel of me, half naked and trapped in my dress, with only Fletcher there to help, hits full force.
Wonderful. Just the impression I wanted to make.
The one bright side to all of this is that it’s my day off, but that’s also equally depressing. Nothing like spending your much needed day of rest nursing a hangover while actively praying the man you’re somewhat interested in suffers a case of amnesia.
And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow can officially fuck off.
Not only will I have to face the man who quite literally undressed me last night, but I’ll be doing it sober.
Pretty sure that should qualify as cruel and unusual punishment.
Then again, with how reckless I let myself get, maybe it’s exactly what I deserve.
Finally feeling brave enough to move without risking my skull exploding, I grab the water and pills and carefully toss them back.
I reach for the note next, but just as my hand touches the folded paper I'm interrupted as my phone pings from where it’s conveniently been plugged in.
A level of adulting I know drunk me never achieved last night all on my own.
It’s probably Logan, and or Candice in our group chat promising to never go out with me again, not that I blame them. I don’t ever want to go out with myself again either.
It’s not the girls, though. It’s Fletcher’s name that appears on screen.
Do I even want to know what he has to say? Probably not, but I also can’t go on pretending like the night before never happened, despite how tempting that sounds.
I let out a deep breath and slide my finger over the pop-up.
Fletch:
How are you feeling? Hopefully you saw and took advantage of the water and pills I left.
I should reply. If anything, he at least deserves a thank you for everything he put up with, but I can’t make myself type a response.
Hell, just opening this text took practically everything I had left in me.
So, being the immature child I am, I set my phone back on the bedside table, shove my face in my pillow, and let out a long, pitiful groan.
If a sinkhole could open underneath my bed and swallow me whole right now, that’d be fucking great. Too bad I don’t even have the brain power right now to even google how to make one appear. Ugh, where’s a good ol’ Etsy witch when you need one?
The only thing I feel even remotely capable of is closing my eyes, and pretending the day away, which surprisingly works faster than expected.
Despite my catastrophizing, I fall back asleep.
It’s probably the pills I have to thank for that, since what used to feel like a jackhammer going to town inside my skull now feels like a casual handyman lightly tap-tap-tapping away.
It’s progress, and right now? I’ll take it.
I’m not sure how long I’m out for when a loud knock jolts me awake—and this time it’s not the kind going on inside my head—or at least I don't think so. I sit up quickly as things go blurry and a lightheaded sensation takes over.
Note to self: no more sudden movements.
Despite the stars still circling my vision, I'm left in silence. Did I really just imagine that?
I shake my head, because clearly I’m losing it, but another, much louder knock sets me straight. The relief at knowing I'm not going crazy is feeling, because this just means someone is actually at my front door.
For this Gen-z’er I’m not sure which is worse.
I pull the covers up over my face. Do I really have to answer it? Would it really be the worst thing in the world if I stayed in bed, pretending like I'm the last person on earth and that nobody else exists?
The knocking grows louder and more insistent.
I groan as I lower the blanket. So much for that short-lived dream. “I’m coming,” I yell, as I peel myself out of bed.
Every muscle and joint in my body protests as I half-shuffle, half-zombie march to grab my pink fuzzy robe from the back of my closet door. It might not be the cutest thing I own, but it beats showing off the lady bits again as I secure it tightly with a double knot around my middle.
Flashing someone once is an accident, if it happens again I may need to start charging people admission for this kind of premium content.
Then again, maybe it doesn’t actually matter, since as I open my front door, the one I flashed last night is standing in front of me again now.
“Fletch.”
Instinctively, I grab at the fluffy robe under my neck and bunch the material together even tighter.
“Good to know you’re alive. You had me worried,” he admits, his shoulders releasing obvious tension. “I’ve been messaging you for an hour, and when you didn’t reply I couldn’t wait around any longer. I needed to come and make sure you were okay in person.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m alive. Barely…but alive” I grumble, not quite sure whether to be touched or annoyed by this unexpected visit.
I hadn’t even taken a look in the mirror before coming to the door. Which, in hindsight, was pretty damn stupid. I can only imagine the disaster he’s seeing right now.
Being the mess that I was, I’m pretty sure I just face-planted into bed without even washing off my makeup or doing my usual nightly skin-care routine.
Nothing screams sexy quite like smudged makeup, puffy eyes, and hair sticking up in every direction.
Between this, or what he saw last night, I’m oddly finding myself debating which of the two is more embarrassing.
“Knowing you made it through the night is enough for me. I’d thought I’d done my due diligence by getting you home safe last night, but if I’d somehow missed a warning sign and left you all alone and something happened after,” he says, shaking his head.
“Let’s just say I’d have never forgiven myself. ”
“No need to be so dramatic,” I tell him, even if the confession is enough to make my insides melt in that super sweet, gushy kind of way I've grown to hate. “I’m fine, really. I might’ve been plastered last night, but not the ‘monitor me so I don’t die in my sleep’ kind of way.”
“That's good, because I also brought these,” he says, holding up a greasy brown paper bag.
“And what exactly are those?”
“What are these? They’re burritos from Antonio’s,” he scoffs, as though that somehow answers my question, but my blank stare keeps him going. “The greatest breakfast burritos in all of Houston.”
“That's a pretty bold claim,” I argue. I’ve eaten many life-changing burritos, especially having lived in both Texas and California, and I’m pretty sure they’d give whatever he has in that bag of his a run for their money.
“Also, what time is it? I’m pretty sure I’ve already missed breakfast by more than a few hours. ”
“It’s a little after one,” he admits, with a grin. “But there’s never a wrong time for an Antonio’s breakfast burrito, especially when they’re my go-to hangover cure. Seriously, with just one bite, you’ll see the light and completely understand.”
“A hangover cure that makes you see the light? That sounds a little scary, actually” I challenge, folding my arms as I lean against the doorframe. “Plus, I’m pretty sure the whole greasy-food hangover thing is a myth.”
“Well,” he says, holding up the bag again. “Consider this a science project and let’s put it to the test.”
“Fine,” I sigh, stepping back to let him inside. “But if this makes me feel worse or I find myself seeing the wrong kind of light, I’m warning you now, if I die, it’s you I’m haunting.”
“How is that even a threat? You being the one to follow me around for a change?” he asks, a huge boyish grin on his face as he struts inside, shutting the door behind him. “Sounds like heaven to me.”
My apartment is small, but cozy, which means there’s no room for a dining table. Instead, I eat my meals at the tall counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, where a couple of stools are tucked underneath.
I lead us over, and we take our seats before Fletcher pulls out the two massive burritos. We’re talking giant monstrosities that I’m pretty sure could feed an entire village.
“Seriously, after just one bite there’s no way you’ll ever want to eat another burrito from anywhere else,” he says, pushing the smaller of the two toward me.
I stare at the thing, unsure where to start, but as Fletcher begins unwrapping his, I follow his lead.
The presentation starts off strong; it’s clear it’s been made with a fresh, handmade tortilla.
I’m also hit with the first whiff, and okay, fine, it smells amazing, even if my stomach betrays me with a small groan.
Then again, I’m pretty sure that’s just my stomach remembering the betrayal of too much vodka with little to no food.
Still, I power through. I have to eat at some point today.
“It’s even better with the red sauce,” he explains, pulling out a few tiny, clear cups portioned with either red or green sauce. “Careful though They’ve got a bit of a kick to them.”
“Good to know,” I say, reaching for one of each, because well, why not?
He grabs some of the red sauce first and pours it all over the top of his burrito. “You ready for this? Because I’m fairly confident this will be a truly life changing experience and you’ll be spending the rest of your life thanking me for introducing you to Antonio.”