to barf, but the nausea is real.
Finally bringing myself to open my eyes, I realize I’m hugging a man’s gray suit jacket, and I fling it to the ground. Memories assault me like I’ve just put a beehive on my head. Ryan brought me home last night. STING. He came in my house. STING. Put me in my bed. STING. Covered me with a blanket. STING, STING.
And…oh no. I admitted to wishing he had kissed me!
Now I’m really going to be sick. Oh, but no worries. There is a waste basket beside my bed with a fresh trash bag in it, because RYAN put it there, knowing I’d be out-of-my-mind hungover today. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.
My head is throbbing, and my body feels like a semi has run over it, hit reverse, and then taken one more pass. Honestly, I wish it had. Then, I wouldn’t have to face Ryan the rest of this week.
All I want to do is lie here in my bed and wallow all day long, but I can’t. Although I thought ahead to have Stacy’s shift covered, I didn’t anticipate me trying to drink the entire contents of four bars in one night and still thought I’d be in tip-top shape this morning. Somehow, this is all Ryan’s fault. It feels good to throw the blame on him.
Tossing off the covers, I force my legs off the side of the bed and sit up straight. I immediately spot another clue that my nemesis was in my house. Two little aspirin pills lay innocently beside a full glass of water, taunting me. Sure, it could have been a friendly gesture: I hope you feel better soon, June! But I know Ryan. This is his way of saying I win again.
I don’t even want those pills—don’t even need them!
But when I stand and cross the room at the pace of an injured snail, I turn back and down the aspirin like my life depends on it. Ryan will never know.
Twenty minutes later, I still feel (and look, mind you) like the Grim Reaper, but I’ve wiped the caked-on mascara out from under my eyes, brushed my teeth for a solid two minutes, and signed a contract I scribbled out onto an old receipt, stating that I will never drink again. I also attempt to scrub off all of my regret in the shower. It doesn’t work. With every minute that passes, I realize I despise my actions from last night more.
After dressing and applying a fresh coat of makeup to hide the new circles under my eyes, I make my way to the kitchen. More clues are littered around my house, and I want to scream. There is a fresh pot of coffee on my counter (how did he get the auto brew feature to work? I’ve been trying all month!) and my favorite mug sitting beside it. There’s an innocent photo of Nick Lachey printed on the front, but when you fill it with hot liquid, his shirt disappears, revealing his glorious chiseled six pack. Best magic trick ever. But that’s beside the point.
All of these little “acts of kindness” are nothing but him setting the stage.
Telling me he’s the boss.
Reminding me of my indiscretions.
Just to spite him, I fill a different mug, take a sip, and dang it, he makes incredible coffee! This is so stupid. Ryan doesn’t matter to me anymore. I don’t have a crush on him. I don’t think he’s hot. I DON’T. And I only smelled his suit jacket one time to see what gross cologne a spawn of the devil wears. Okay, I smelled it twice. Three times. FOUR, GOSH!
Unable to stomach all of the reminders of Ryan scattered around my house, I take my coffee out on the front porch to enjoy it in peace. I tiptoe toward the patio seat, trying to sip as I walk without sloshing any coffee on me, when my foot bumps into a package I somehow missed yesterday. It’s little and taped up with a familiar washi tape, tipping me off immediately to who sent it.
I pull out my phone, and although it’s early, I dial my mama because I know she’ll already be up. I settle myself on the porch chair and pin my phone to my ear as I tear into the box, pushing the polka dot tissue paper aside and extracting the gift.
“Well, morning, darlin!” Mama says with a chipper tone that I can’t help but grin at. Here’s the