Cecilia - Six
There was a loud, steady beating thrumming against the walls as I cracked my eyes open, immediately being blinded by streams of daylight that had snuck through the blue, painted cracked shutters.
The repetitive thud, thud, thud was beating incessantly against my temples, and with a groan I flung my hand out trying to find the source to shut it the hell up.
As I brought my hand down with an almighty slap, I immediately made contact with skin, and a half shriek, half groan let out in the room.
“What the fuck Cece!” Siena yelped out before smacking me back.
“I’m trying to turn off whatever is making the noise that’s piercing my skull!” I groaned back as I looked around at the disarray of clothes strewn across the floor, my bra hanging off the door handle of the bedroom, and Siena’s eyelashes that were haphazardly stuck up against the mirror.
Despite us splashing out a little more with our accommodation in Nice and actually having our own bedrooms for the first time this trip, in our drunken haze I vaguely remembered us beelining immediately for this room after we’d thrown the majority of our bags in the other room.
That was an organisation task that would have to be done at a later date.
I attempted to shift myself up the bed to lean against the headboard the best I could in my current state and beside me, Siena reached to the bedside table for the glass of water.
“The only piercing noise I’m currently hearing is you ,” she replied, throwing a look at me.
I swallowed, feeling the dryness in my throat, and suddenly the desperate need to both drink a glass of water and brush my teeth took over. It was clear there was no noise outside of my head, it only existed inside, torturing me and my decision to drink too much alcohol the night before.
“How much did we drink last night?” I groaned again, shifting myself into a more comfortable position.
Siena absentmindedly passed me the glass of water and dragged the sheet up to her neck.
“I lost count after the first three bottles of wine,” she grimaced and as soon as she had mentioned the word wine, my mouth seemed to turn even more rancid. The taste of rosé sat heavily in the roof of my mouth and I wished I had anything minty in arms reach.
“I do distinctly remember you spitting water at me at one point though,” I said, giving her a raised eyebrow as the memory came flooding back to me. Siena was known for being less than hospitable if somebody suggested anything non-alcoholic when she was drunk.
“And I remember you flirting with Teddy,” she retorted, shooting her own pointed look back at me .
“Theo,” I corrected her before rolling my eyes and attempting to keep my face as neutral as I could. “And I wasn’t flirting.”
“Oh yeah sure, your cheeks and eyes were just glowing because of the alcohol,” she deadpanned.
Exactly, I felt like saying, but I chose not to. Instead, I mumbled, “He was one of my best friends,” flung the sheet back causing it to fly over Siena’s head and stood up attempting to balance myself as all the blood rushed to my head.
There was a rustle behind me as Siena unravelled herself from the sheet and pointed toward her chest. “Correction. I am your best friend of ten years, might I add and you’ve never looked at me like you wanted to sit in my lap.”
“I do not want to sit in his lap!” I shrieked, throwing my arms up in the air. I grabbed the hairband from my wrist just to give my hands something to do.
“Fine, you want to sit on his dick!” she said back and I turned to her with my mouth agape.
I so did not want to do that. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind, until now and it was all Siena’s fault for putting the image there. Even in the blurry images my brain was desperately trying to remember, I could see his piercing blue eyes and the scruff of his beard.
Goddamn, that beard. Since when did I like that?
“It was just nice to see him,” I admitted while deflecting the sexual statement she had made.
I shook my head, the thoughts and pictures in my mind disappearing with the notion.
“Enough about that!” I said, my eyes sweeping around the room and finding my phone hanging precariously off the table at the foot of the bed.
I picked it up and realised it was still surprisingly early; the digital clock displayed 07:26 in the right-hand corner.
“We should totally go to one of those farmers markets today. We’re up early enough—”
“We’re also outrageously hungover,” Siena interrupted with a groan, rubbing at her temples.
I knew I was getting the hangover zoomies this morning already; my body convincing itself that I wasn’t in fact hungover, just tired and suddenly I had too much energy and an overwhelming need to do anything and everything before ultimately crash landing later when the true horrors of my hangover kicked in.
It happened nearly every time I drank more than I should, something I intended to stop soon.
I couldn’t deal with the anxiety in the morning.
“Comsi, comsa,” I replied with a grin, shaking my right hand to mimic the French way of saying I was feeling in the middle.
“I’m comtired, comfedup and comhungover,” Siena mumbled and I tried to suppress the giggle that rose.
“I’ll buy you the biggest pain au chocolate and coffee we can find?” I suggested, knowing my bribery would work. There were three things Siena always needed on a hungover: coffee, food and a terrible movie. If I could provide at least two of those things, I knew I could win her over.
“Fine. You’ve twisted my arm. I’m not happy about it, but you’ve succeeded. I call dibbs on the shower first,” she replied and made her way out of the bed and towards the ensuite. “And I want two pastries,” she added, stabbing a finger in my direction.
I beamed at her, “Roger that.”
The scent of warm bread hit me before I even opened my eyes properly.
It curled through the air, delicate and buttery, like a promise.
My head throbbed in that dull, post-wine sort of way, and the sun—bright and smug—did nothing to help it.
I blinked blearily against the light, pulling my sunglasses down from my head and slipping them on.
“Everything hurts,” Siena groaned beside me, dragging her feet along the cobbled street like she hadn’t slept in a year. “But honestly, if I’m going to be hungover, it may as well be in France. At least here, the pastries are good.”
She wasn’t wrong. The farmer’s market was already alive with colour and life, nestled in the heart of the village square.
Stalls stretched out like patchwork, each draped in fabric canopies fluttering gently in the morning breeze.
The sky was a soft blue, the kind of blue that belonged in storybooks—barely a cloud in sight, the sun already climbing steadily.
Birdsong laced the air above us, cheerful and constant, and a soft summer wind carried scents of crushed herbs, fresh fruit, and roasted coffee beans.
From a nearby stall, steam drifted up from espresso machines, rich and nutty and enough to make my stomach rumble despite the queasiness turning inside it .
All around us, people buzzed like bees—locals with baskets looped over their arms, tourists leaning over displays of jams and spices.
French mingled with broken English, voices calling out offers and greetings.
"Trois euros la baguette!" and "Madame, fresh strawberries today!
" sang out in thick accents. It was chaos, and somehow still charming.
I passed a bread stall and had to stop. Rows of golden baguettes were piled like art, next to flaky croissants that glistened slightly in the light.
Pain au chocolate, pain aux raisins, round loaves of sourdough and crusty batards all lined up like soldiers waiting for attention.
The smell was intoxicating—fresh, slightly sweet, and warm enough to make me forget my headache for a second.
A stall further down caught my eye—wheels of artisanal cheese stacked in soft, pale towers, some with herbs pressed into the rind, others oozing gently under the weight of the morning sun.
Next to it, cured meats were hung in thick bunches, their rich scent mingling with the tang of ripe tomatoes and earthy mushrooms from the vegetable stand beside them.
“Where do we even start?” I asked, glancing at Siena, who looked on the brink of collapse and ecstasy all at once.
She didn’t hesitate. “Pastry. Immediately. And hot coffee. Like, now.”
Just then, a bicycle zipped past behind us, the bell giving a cheerful ding as the rider called out, “Pardon, jolies dames!” He sped on with a grin, weaving through the crowd with enviable ease .
I laughed quietly, stepping aside as I watched him vanish between two linen stalls and I also had no idea what ‘jolies dames’ meant.
Everything about this morning felt like something out of a film—the light, the smells, the easy movement of people who knew exactly what to do here. I didn’t, not really.
We wandered forward, Siena already pointing at a pastry stall like a woman possessed, and I followed, the taste of last night lingering on my lips, along with something else I couldn’t quite name.
“Bonjour!” Siena sang at the awaiting middle-aged man behind the stall, when he spotted her, his face immediately lit up and he turned his full attention on her.
“Bonjour, madame, would you like some tasty treats on this fine morning?” he asked, gesturing with his hands at the weather and surroundings.
“Oui, j’adore tasty treats,” Siena replied, clapping her hands in delight as her eyes roamed with excitement over all the delicious options. I coughed into my hand to cover up the giggle at Siena’s half-English, her French sentence. “Two pain au chocolates, s’il vous plait!”
Siena has mastered how to say please in French and now added it to the end of every one of her sentences, while the rest she spoke in English.