9. No. 16 Fight my own fight
nine
Bea
Iwake up with a mouth drier than a mummy’s arsehole and a throbbing in my head that only comes from red wine.
The gap in my bedroom curtains lets through a beam of blinding sunlight that hits me directly in the eyes and creates an intense pain behind my eyeballs.
Some sort of animalistic whine comes out of me as I roll over to avoid the light, and I get tangled in my shirt I’m still wearing from last night.
Slowly and carefully, I push myself up to a seated position, hating the way my head swirls and my stomach rolls.
“Shit,” I moan, pressing the heels of my palms into my eye sockets in an attempt to stop the room from spinning.
So, I’m still wearing the clothes I went to the pub in last night, but I apparently remembered to take my shoes off.
I remember breaking down to Eli at the bar, wincing at the memory, and I remember August walking me home.
Why did he do that? But I don’t remember anything about getting home or getting to bed.
I am both hungry and nauseous and have a weird craving for eggs, but first I have to drink something.
My glass sits on my bedside table, fuller than I thought it would be.
I gulp down half the glass, loving the soothing coolness against my throat, feeling it rush down to my stomach and settling some of the gurgling there.
Mentally patting myself on the back for remembering to refill my glass before I passed out, I peel myself out of bed and decide on a very quick shower before I change into pyjamas and veg out with my current read for the day. It’s an effort to undress myself, every movement sluggish and fumbling.
Eventually, I get under the spray, washing off the grime and sweat of an alcohol induced sleep with water as hot as the ancient plumbing will allow.
After drying off, I pull on the cotton sleep shorts I should have changed into last night along with a loose tank top and an oversized cardigan.
My hair still piled high messily on top of my head from my shower, and I slide my feet into the new socks Cas included in my gift basket.
They’re knee high, fluffy, and have little grippies on the bottom so I don’t have to fear death on the stairs.
It’s not until I’m halfway down the stairs when I realise Heathcliff hadn’t been in bed with me, which is odd, he rarely doesn’t sleep curled around the top of my head.
But occasionally, he will choose to spend the night in his tree, so I’m not too worried about it.
I make it to the kitchen and grab a pan from the cupboard, putting it down on the metal stove top as gently as possible to avoid the hideous metallic scrape that would be sure to pierce my brain.
It's cold downstairs and I wonder if it’s acceptable to light a fire in May.
I regret my lack of bra when my couch begins to move.
Like a monster emerging from the deep, the plethora of blankets and cushions starts rising with a low rumbling sound permeating the air and my heart leaps into my throat, a scream slipping past it.
My instincts have me reaching for the first available weapon, which happens to be the utensil pot, and I whip a spatula out, holding it in front of me like a sword.
Suddenly, there’s a dog barking at me and Heathcliff jumps up on the kitchen counter only to rub his back over my brandished spatula, like I’m holding it out for his pleasure. When the last of the blankets fall away, I’m left staring at my grumpy neighbour.
“What the hell, man?” I shriek.
Darcy gives another bark, although it seems more happy than aggressive, and he comes to sit by my feet. Heathcliff jumps down from the counter to circle the shaggy grey dog like he’s his newest obsession.
August blinks away the sleep from his eyes and frowns at me. “What are you doing?” he asks, looking between me and my improvised weapon.
“I was getting ready to slay the blanket monster emerging from my sofa,” I say, still willing my heart back to a steady rhythm.
“With a spatula?” he asks, one thick brow arching.
Half embarrassed and half incensed, I drop my arm and glare at him. “I’ll have you know, a spatula is a good thwacker. I could have thwacked you and run away.”
“Right,” he says, hauling his ginormous frame off of my sofa and stretching his back out from side to side then rolling his neck.
It takes my hungover brain a moment to process what I’m seeing. August is in my house. At eight o’clock in the morning. Wearing the same flannel shirt and jeans he was wearing last night. August slept here. On my tiny two-seater couch.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, frowning at him.
He doesn’t answer straight away, taking a moment to stretch himself out some more. Sighing, he rests his hands on his hips and turns to face me fully. “You kept talking about making eggs,” he says, like it answers the question.
“Eggs?”
“Eggs.”
Okay, well that explains my breakfast cravings. “What do eggs have to do with why you slept on my couch?”
“Because I thought you might try and cook and you were in no state to operate a gas stove, so I decided to stay until I was sure you wouldn’t get up and accidentally burn down a five-hundred-year-old building.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat.
“Your sofa is tiny, by the way.”
I wince thinking of all that bulk squished onto my sofa. I mean, he’s really big. “Sorry.”
August hangs his head, expelling a long breath. “Why are you apologising, Bea?”
I think it’s the first time I’ve heard him say my name, the sound of it in his gruff tone sends a wave of goosebumps over my arms and legs. “Uh,” I stammer. “That my couch is so small?” I say it like a question and shuffle uncomfortable at his clear displeasure at the answer.
“That’s not something you should be apologising for.” He sighs before hooking a hand at the back of his neck, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Listen, Bea, I uh, I need to apologise.”
“Apologise?” I ask dumbly, still feeling the aftershocks from the second time I hear my name from his lips.
“I shouldn’t have said that stuff to you the other day. I was, uh…I was having a bad day, and I may have unfairly taken it out on you.”
I hug myself, only to realise I’m still holding the spatula and drop it to the counter. “Oh, that’s okay,” I say quietly, out of habit.
He looks up from the floor to frown at me. “No, it’s not. And you shouldn’t be letting me off the hook.”
“Oh, okay.” I nod.
“I’ve been trying to buy the old shop for a while,” he admits, sitting back down on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “It didn’t work out for me, and I guess I was pissed it finally went to someone else.”
Oooooh. Well, that makes sense, I guess. Kind of. I abandon thoughts of eggs and round the counter to sit next to him on the sofa, Darcy follows me happily and jumps up between us when I sit.
“Off, Darcy,” August says with an air of exhaustion.
“He’s okay,” I assure, reaching up to stroke the dog’s head.
I watch in shock as Heathcliff jumps up onto August’s lap, climbs his chest and wraps himself around the back of his neck like he so often does with me.
August grunts, looking utterly unimpressed with my cat but raises a giant hand to scratch between Heathcliff’s ears. “He’s a friendly thing, isn’t he?”
“No!” I say, staring at them. “He hates men.”
Another grunt as August continues tickling Heathcliff’s head.
“So, you’re pissed at me for buying the shop I didn’t know you wanted?” I ask casually, stroking along the length of Darcy’s back.
“Pretty much,” August agrees, like it’s not the most ridiculous thing to admit. “Never said I was rational.”
That makes me smile, my fingers digging into the shaggy fur so I can scratch at Darcy’s belly where he’s rolled to his side between us. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
He nods solemnly. “I understand you’ve been having a rough time of it since you got here,” he says, and I swallow down some of the misery I’ve been feeling along with the shame of so publicly breaking down from the weight of it.
“And I feel shitty about adding to it.” August still doesn’t look at me, but I turn to watch his profile as he fumbles though his apology.
He’s handsome in a rugged, mountain man kind of way, and I’m rather enjoying his squirming discomfort at having to eat humble pie.
“Well, I’d say it’s okay, but you just got angry at me last time,” I say flatly.
“It may not have been obvious, but I’m not great at this.”
That gets him a small laugh. “You’re doing alright, I really appreciate your apology.
” When he finally turns to me, face as serious as I’ve seen it, I offer him a gentle smile.
He doesn’t return it, but he looks less angry at me than he did the other day.
“And thank you for staying here because you were worried about me, that was really sweet.” So sweet, it makes my heart flutter.
“To be clear,” he says holding up a finger. “I said I was worried about the building, not you.”
“Right,” I say, smirking.
“And Eli would be pissed if I’d walked you home and then let you hurt yourself.”
“Well, Eli’s a great guy.”
“Oh yeah, the best.” His sarcasm makes my smile bloom, and I avoid looking at him by giving Darcy more love.
Heathcliff seems to realise I’m paying more attention to the dog and gets down from August’s neck to lay on top of Darcy’s exposed belly so my ministrations land on his side instead.
“So, these two seem to have made friends,” I say, watching the two fur babies snuggle together.
August looks down at them with a raised brow and a nod of his head.
“Maybe you and I could be friends adjacent?” I ask hopefully.
He rubs his hands over his hair and puffs out a breath. “I’m not a fun friend, direct or adjacent,” he admits.
“I can bring the fun,” I say easily. “I have Uno and Backgammon.”
I swear one side of his mouth lifts, and I feel butterflies take flight in my tummy at being the one to almost make him smile.
“In the interest of becoming friend adjacent,” he says, reaching into the couch cushions. “You mind me asking about this?”
He pulls Pedro out from where he’d been smushed in the corner of the couch.
My face lights up with a genuine smile because my plushie makes me inexplicably happy. “Oh, that’s Pedro, my emotional support peen.”
“Of course it is,” he says, putting Pedro back on the sofa. “I don’t know why I asked.”
I stand and notice August’s eyes rake over my pyjamas, lingering only a second on my breasts which I’m sure are pointing right at him. Clearing my throat, I pull my cardigan tightly around my middle. “Would you like some eggs?”
He looks up at me almost nervous, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before he says, “Actually, I was going to ask if you’d like to come to Sunday lunch at my parent’s house.”