Chapter 2
One Year Later
I gave one last heave as the contents of my stomach emptied into the grimy toilet bowl.
The skin-tight, silver dress I wore bunched at my waist—my poor attempt to keep the material from touching any other surface of the nightclub bathroom.
I’d slipped it on this evening, knowing how it moulded to my body like a second skin and I didn’t want it ruined simply because I couldn’t handle cheap tequila.
A used tampon sat shrivelled up in the corner, and various patches of liquid puddled on the floor. Even in my inebriated state, I’d avoided the worst of the toilet stalls.
Consulting my gut to see if it had anything else it would like to evict, I gingerly got to my feet, closed the lid, and slumped down on the cold porcelain.
Fluorescent lights flickered above my head, a curse of sober reality and a stark contrast to the low light and deep bass that thumped only a few feet away through the closed bathroom door.
The stale taste of secondhand liquor laced my tongue.
I grimaced. I’d narrowly missed getting the David Beckham lookalike I had been flirting with splashed with vomit.
From the way he had dodged out of the way when I’d clamped a hand over my mouth, a look of justified disgust on his face, I doubted he was still waiting for me.
Shame. He’d been really hot.
I was on a winning streak recently. Every night this week, I’d managed to pick up a guy.
If my body hadn’t rebelled against me, the knock-off Beckham and I would be in a taxi halfway to my flat by now.
Considering how his eyes had roamed over every inch of exposed skin on my body, the interest hadn’t been one way.
All that had come to a crashing halt ten minutes ago.
Apparently, when you near your thirties, your tolerance for drinking and bad pickup lines plummets. I’d thought it was a myth meant to scare the youth of the world, until I got two shots of tequila down, and my stomach decided to pull the plug.
A hundred tiny gremlins were hacking away at my temple. Paying me back for asking it to function on little to no sleep and pot noodles. I brought a hand to my head, wincing.
The guy had probably moved on by now. I’m not sure how you could continue flirting with a woman who slams back a shot of tequila and nearly spews it all over you.
A lead weight settled in my gut that had nothing to do with the last few minutes.
I didn’t want to go back out there, the music pounding and the sweaty bodies moving together.
Four hours ago, I’d been desperate to get out of the confines of my flat.
The quiet was so loud I could hear my own heartbeat.
At least if I was out, around people, I could distract myself. I wouldn’t be alone.
Right now, all I wanted was to go home, wrap myself in my duvet, snuggle with my dog, Roxy, and wake up to this entire night being nothing but a bad dream.
Home. I need to go home.
Plucking my silver sequinned clutch from the top of the toilet roll holder, I rummaged around for my phone.
Fallon.
She’d come pick me up, and I wouldn’t get a lecture about going out every night this week. Her face would go all scrunchy, like it did sometimes when she thought my decisions were questionable, but she’d keep them to herself—at least until I was sober.
Something my mother definitely wouldn’t be considerate of. Especially if I interrupted one of her coven meetings. She’d be more likely to toss several globes of garlic at me, claiming I needed cleansing.
Fallon’s picture flashed on the screen—it was of the two of us at a football game, both grinning madly at the camera, her pink hair glowing in the sunlight.
My lungs seized as I waited for her to pick up.
‘Rosie?’ she croaked.
‘Hey,’ I whispered, pressing the receiver to my mouth in case anyone else was in the bathroom.
‘Is everything okay?’ Alarm pitched in Fallon’s voice.
‘What’s going on?’ Another muffled voice sounded from the background, a deep, raspier tone.
‘It’s Rosie,’ Fallon explained to Oliver—her boyfriend—who was probably in bed beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’
Hearing Oliver’s voice seemed to unlock a part of my memory that tequila had done its best to erase.
‘Shit. You’re not at home.’ My head suddenly felt too heavy for my neck; it listed to the side, resting on the stall wall. My eyes slid closed.
‘I’m in Wales. Oliver played tonight… or I guess it was last night. I told you.’
She had. For the entire week, she’d been away, supporting her boyfriend as he finished off the football season. My grip on my phone tightened.
‘I remember.’ I hurried to fill the silence when it went on for too long. ‘Sorry to wake you; I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Rosie, wait.’ All the sleepiness had vanished from her voice. ‘What’s wrong?’
I chewed on my bottom lip. Ugh. Another side effect of alcohol, especially tequila, was that it made me weepy. I bit down hard, knowing that if Fallon heard the faintest sniffle, she’d find a way to get back home.
‘I, uh, just needed a lift home. I’ll call an Uber.’ I forced whatever peppiness I had left into my voice.
‘I can—’ she started.
‘I’m good,’ I nearly shouted. ‘See you soon.’
Before I could betray my fragility any further, I hung up.
Not one second later, my phone flared to life again.
Her face lit up on my screen. When I pressed reject, she sent me a flurry of messages, all with the same worried tone.
It took several texts and voice notes to assure her I was safe and fine.
As her last message came through, I ground my back teeth together.
Fallon: If you need a ride, call George. You know he’d come get you.
Yeah, he would. But calling him would interrupt the incredibly grown-up tantrum I was having where he was concerned.
Him. Him with the stupid beard and shoulders you want to hike your thighs over. Him with the dreamy blue eyes that look at you and imagine a white picket fence and three kids.
Drunk Rosie appeared to take over my body because before I was even aware of what I was doing, my thumbs pulled up his contact.
Those same aqua eyes gleamed back at me from the photo I’d assigned to his name.
It was of the two of us the night we met.
His hand looped around my waist, chin resting on top of my head as I pulled a ridiculous face, and he just smiled. That fucking smile.
Months. I’d not talked to him in months. Not since I saw his eyes light up when I entered the room. Not since his smile made my heart leap like a kid on Christmas morning. Not since I realised how dangerous he was to my self-control, and I realised that keeping my distance was best for everyone.
He didn’t want me. He didn’t know me well enough to want me. And no matter how much my body tried to convince me otherwise, I didn’t want him either, not like that.
‘Rosie?’ a masculine voice called out over the muted din of the club. I nearly jumped out of my skin, sending my phone flying until my reflexes kicked in, and I caught it.
‘Rosie!’ The voice got louder.
Peeling my phone from my chest, I let out a groan. What the fuck? Had I really been so lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t realised that Drunk Rosie had pressed his contact? Fuck.
Bringing the phone to my ear, I bit my lower lip again, the sharp tang of metal filling my mouth. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’ His sleep-laced tone caused my stomach to twist with guilt. ‘Rosie, are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ I breathed.
A relieved sigh filtered down the line. ‘You called me.’ The note of disbelief caught me off guard.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘It’s two in the morning.’
‘Did you just answer to state the obvious?’ I snapped.
Being a bitch was a comfortable place—one where I often rested. It’s easier than opening up that box inside, the one with the giant label slapped on the side: Emotions.
Fuck that.
George wasn’t put off by my snippy tone. ‘I answered because I’ve not heard from you in two months, sweetheart, and it’s two in the morning.’
Sweetheart. I slapped a hand over my stomach, commanding that whatever animal was in there right now calm the hell down.
Changing the subject before he could hear my heart thrashing in my chest, I muttered, ‘I might need some help.’
‘Where are you?’ his soft demand came and sent shivers down my spine.
I told him the name of the nightclub, and he let out a soft curse. It wasn’t a club renowned for its sophistication. ‘Are you hurt? Did someone—’
‘No,’ I cut in quickly. ‘No need to be dramatic. I’ve just—’ I really didn’t want to tell him I’d thrown up and was hiding in a bathroom that wouldn’t even get a grade on a hygiene test. ‘Can you just—’
‘I’ll come get you,’ he said without missing a beat. ‘Stay where you are.’
‘No. I’m in a bathroom and it smells, and you can’t tell me what to do.’
The faint sounds of him getting dressed echoed. ‘A tad petulant, don’t you think?’ The laughter in his voice spiked my lousy mood.
‘I’m drunk. I can be as petulant as I like,’ I said with all the snark of a stroppy teenager.
‘Okay, sweetheart.’ The jangle of keys sounded. ‘I won’t be long.’
The words thank you were on the tip of my tongue, ready to roll off. But I kept them trapped behind my teeth.
‘Stay there, Rosie. I mean it,’ George commanded, hanging up before I could say one more word.
The phone fell to my lap like a lead weight.
Drunk Rosie wasn’t only emotional; she was also extremely contrary.
I didn’t want to feel the emotions he stirred up inside me. I didn’t want him to come rescue me. I didn’t want him.
Pocketing my phone, I rinsed my mouth with water from the tap, and stalked back into the dimly lit club, the strobe lighting cutting across the room.
I let the loud music, sweaty bodies writhing together, and terrible decisions fill some of the hollowness in my chest, and went in search of the David Beckham lookalike.