8. Vivian
Vivian
the morning after
B ang. Bang. Bang. Bangbangbangbang!
“What the—?” I groan and pull my pillow over my head as Raelynn storms into my room with her favorite toy drum in hand. This girl is headed toward marching band at this rate. I guess I should be grateful she didn’t pick up the trumpet this morning.
“Aunt Viv, I make music!” Her gleeful smile is so radiant this morning.
Too radiant. As radiant as the sun. Oh no, she’s pulling the curtains wide open and now I’m jolting awake from both blinding sunlight and a tune that sounds suspiciously like Outkast’s “Bombs Over Baghdad.” Heaven help me, she’ll have great taste in music. If my head lives long enough to see it.
“Raelynn, pleease go do that downstairs. Aunt Viv has a headache!”
Her eyes scrunch up and her nose wrinkles and for a moment I’m worried she might be about to cry… until she gives me a big sniff.
“You stink,” she declares solemnly. “You need bath!”
I can’t help but laugh and agree with her as I turn her little shoulders around and point to the door.
“You’re right, princess,” I say, adopting the nickname that Derrick gave her.
As I raise my arms, I can tell that I definitely do stink, like stale sweat and tequila.
But there’s an underlying note too, a faint citrus scent that’s dried on my chest. I reach down to pick up the halter top from last night and give a quick whiff—not too much, because club smells mingled together will only make the hangover worse.
But yeah, right at the top of the shirt are the lingering notes of Michael’s cologne. And I sigh.
I press the shirt to my nose just enough to catch one more hint of him as my cheeks heat thinking of how close our bodies were pressed together.
How much I resented the clothes that separated our skin.
How our sweat combined and I wanted nothing more than to climb him like a koala and stay in his arms forever.
The memory of our sensual dancing makes me press my thighs together as I recall how he grasped my hips so possessively as he whispered, “ I’m really liking you.
” How he looked me straight in the eyes as he told me to give him my number.
He wasn’t asking. The same way he told me he’d be seeing me soon.
Like it wasn’t up for debate. And I shiver thinking of that kiss .
The one that about made me lose my mind.
I can still feel the way his lips claimed mine.
“Why you smell stinky clothes?” Raelynn inquires, raising her eyebrows and looking at me like I have two heads. “That gross.” She shakes her head at me. “Dirty.” She points to my overflowing laundry basket. For a four-year-old, she sure can be bossy.
“You’re right, sweetie.” I shake my head. “Tell your mommy I’ll be down soon.”
She nods and heads toward the door. “Mommy! Aunt Viv smell stinky stuff!” she announces as she goes downstairs.
I huff out a laugh. She’s not wrong. And I did not expect that visceral reaction to the reminder of how good Michael had smelled.
Hell, I’d probably sleep in his gym T-shirt if given the chance.
After a badly needed shower, I join the two at the kitchen table.
Raelynn is watching Sesame Street, and Claire already has a cup of coffee waiting for me.
“Girl, you are an absolute lifesaver.” I groan as I take my first sip.
“I don’t know how you make this so good, but I will name my firstborn after you. ”
Claire winks at me over her own mug. “It’s got my patented morning-after blend in it. Figured you could use it since you apparently shut the club down last night,” she teases.
“I did not!” I pause, glaring at her. But then I remember that she made the special cinnamon and honey concoction just for me and grin. “Okay, maybe I did.”
“So who was he?” she asks innocently, her eyes anything but. Damn her.
“Wh–what?” I splutter, almost spitting out the precious drink.
“Oh, come on, Viv. I know you better than that.” She gives me an exaggerated side eye, and I stick my tongue out at her. Very mature, I know. Sue me. “Seriously, you’re way too chipper to not bite Raelynn’s head off when I let her barge into your room this morning.”
“ You did that? I take back everything nice I ever said about you.”
“Girl, please, it was time for you to wake up anyway. You’re closing tonight, remember?”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” I groan as I slump back in my chair. “Whyyy did I ever agree to cover for Sheila?”
“Because you’re a good person who cares as much about my restaurant as I do?”
“Nah, that can’t be it.” I peel one eye open to look at her.
“And I’m not that good.” She laughs and throws a sugar cube at me.
She’s the only person I know who still keeps sugar cubes in her kitchen.
Says tea just isn’t the same with anything else.
And her sweet tea at the restaurant is known for miles, so I guess she knows what she’s talking about.
The fact that we can use the cubes as a quick and fun pick-me-up for Raelynn’s low blood sugars doesn’t hurt either.
“All right, chica.” Time for full transparency if she’s using my pet name. “Spill, before I waste this entire sugar bowl on you.”
I take a sip of my coffee, pulling my leg up underneath me. How do I even begin to describe someone who affected me the way Michael did last night?
Especially when I’m not supposed to be looking for anything?
“Okay, don’t judge…”
“I would never,” she says softly. Her eyes are so warm on mine, and I reflect once again how lucky I am to have a best friend like her. She’s been through so much shit with me. Trent, the days I was in tears from fibro, dealing with my mother…
Moving in was intended to help her out, but she’s done more for me than I can ever repay.
The day I met Claire was one of the lowest points of my life.
I haven’t been to church in years, but it must’ve been divine providence that led me into her restaurant that day, barely holding back the tears as I asked for a table for one.
Instead of seating me, she placed me at the bar and just listened.
Listened while I poured my guts out over how my life wasn’t turning out like anything I’d planned or hoped.
My mom and I were so at odds with each other that I was considering moving to another state just to get out from under her roof. I love my mom. I really do, but too many arguments and rebellion and close quarters had come to a head. I needed to get away from the criticisms and long sighs.
Yes, her worrying about how I would survive on my own with fibromyalgia were probably justified, but that only served to motivate me even more. To prove that I could handle it. I just needed space to breathe, to think, and figure out where to go from there.
That gap year—the one where I was going to figure out what to do with my life—had stretched into two.
After a tumultuous year of unrelenting pain that left me hobbling like a hunchback and barely able to sleep, I’d scraped by, working odd jobs.
Once I got an official diagnosis and a mostly successful pain management plan, I’d finally gotten to a place where I could handle full-time hours, and I was ready to make some changes in my life.
I just didn’t know what that was going to look like yet.
My high school friends had either gone on to college or the military, except for the ones who married their school sweethearts and started spitting out babies. Neither appealed to me.
That fateful day, I’d had yet another major blowout with my mother, followed by a snippy conversation with Trent where I told him I couldn’t physically handle coming to his concert.
After an all-day fibro flare where my shoulders felt like Mike Tyson’s punching bag, the idea of tolerating a noisy crowd where I was guaranteed to get pushed around in the standing-room-only space of a tiny bar was too exhausting.
Trent told me he didn’t even think what I was experiencing was real, that I was faking it, before hanging up on me.
Why I hadn’t ended it right then was beyond me. I’d always thought myself to be a strong person, but that day a feather could have knocked me into my grave.
I’d gotten into my little car and driven aimlessly down toward Gwinnett, pulling into the first restaurant I found.
I don’t know what persuaded Claire to sit down and listen to the problems of a tear-streaked stranger.
But by the end of the day, she’d cried along with me and had me laughing and hugging her.
She’d confided her own struggles to me as a single parent of a newly diagnosed type one diabetic child, and I’d tried to encourage her the best I could.
My best friend growing up had juvenile diabetes, and I’d seen her go through a lot.
That same friend was now successfully graduating college (a fact my mom never hesitated to throw in my face) and on track to becoming a diabetes educator.
Claire must’ve needed someone to talk to as much as I did, because she immediately made plans for me to come to her house for a movie night and to meet Raelynn.
That girls’ night turned into a sleepover.
There were hours of laughter—and tequila, once Raelynn had gone to bed.
We spent the whole weekend bonding, laughing, crying, trading stories about family, guys, and unconventional childhoods.
And I kinda never really left.
When Claire officially hired me to manage at her family restaurant, I moved in to help out with Raelynn’s care, and that was it.
Her husband Paul had been killed on his second tour of Afghanistan; he’d never even had a chance to meet his daughter.
Their relationship was the only area of her life she didn’t talk about.