Eleven Weeks
Crazy in Love Series
Eleven Weeks
The Problem with Heartache
For my mother, because you really are there when I need you (and no, don’t worry, I don’t think you’re Stacey’s mum) x
November 12
I
WAKE
to the sound of a drill-saw attempting to channel through a concrete pylon right next to my head.
“Why?” I grunt. Only it sounds more like “arrggghhh”, even to my ears. Apparently being woken by a drill-saw seriously impedes my ability to form words. I reach my hand out and slam something in front of me, presumably the drill-saw, most likely a clock radio. Regardless, the action makes the noise stop. Thank hell.
Ugh. While the blast of noise has stopped, there’s still a ringing in my head of dizzy-making proportions. Not to mention that my tongue tastes like I’ve been eating road kill. Yuck.
I squint one eye open and then scrunch my lid shut immediately. Harsh yellow light screams through a window framed by black, floral curtains. What fresh hell is this? Who has opened my—
Shit.
I don’t have black, floral curtains.
I inch open my lid at a snail’s pace, this time preparing myself for the assault of light from the left of the room. Yep. Black, floral curtains still there.
I open my eyes wider and take in more of the room in front of me. Aside from the window, there’s a black bedside table with a digital clock on the top of it, right next to a red lamp. The floor is covered in a shaggy cream carpet, with a black skirt and a red lacy bra lying on top of it.
Oh, no. Please, please no …
I slowly raise the white sheet from my body. Yep, exactly as I’d suspected.
My
black skirt and red bra.
This, of course, leaves only one question. But do I really want to look? Can I?
I rack my brain, trying to put together the pieces of the night before. There was the party at Joe’s. I’d gone there with Kate, because Dave and the band were playing. Michael. I saw Michael. Tequila.
Lots
of tequila.
I glanced down at my hand. Seven little lipstick lines mar its surface. One for each shot. At least I can remember that.
But how the hell did I get here? And, more importantly,
where is here?
With my body still firmly positioned toward the left side of the room, I gently inch my foot behind me.
One inch: nothing. Just cool, crisp sheet.
Two inches: still nothing.
Three inches: so far, so good. Hopefully I’m alone. I just went to some stranger’s house, took off all my clothes, and slept solo in a random bed.
Four in—
shit!
My big toe makes contact with something warm, hairy, and distinctively human. I jerk my leg back toward me. My heart thuds in my chest, a million miles a minute. What the hell have I done? And who am I in bed with?
My mind races through the potential options. Grant, my ex, hadn’t been at the party, and he sure as hell didn’t have black, flowered curtains. There had been Joe, the older guy whose place the party was at. He’d definitely shown an interest in me, in particular when I’d told him I was eighteen tomorrow.
Today. Technically, I am eighteen right now.
“Hoooaaaawwwwr.” The creature behind me groan-yawns.
It’s like a bullet from a starter gun. I fling the sheets back and jump from the bed. I dive for my clothes, pulling on my underwear, throwing my shirt over my head and hoisting up my skirt like this is the Olympic event for sprint-dressing and I’m the lead contestant.
I grab my bra from the floor and thank the god of hangovers that my mobile is hidden underneath it, along with my flip-flops, which I promptly slip on.
“Hey,” a deep voice calls from behind me. A voice I don’t really recognise. It sounds like a million male voices, all rolled into one.
I freeze. Is it better to know and deal with it, or run and hide in shame?
Only there’s not really a question.
I’ll take the shame, thanks
, my legs tell my brain as they sprint toward the door. I wrench it open and then slam it shut behind me, the mystery man calling something in my wake.
I’m in a living room with black leather lounges in front of me, and a giant flat-screen TV to the left. Windows with more of those hideous curtains let in cruel, natural light and next to them—
thank you, thank you, thank you
—a door, the kind of thick, wooden thing that clearly screams
exit
.
I dart toward it, screeching as I step on some small, sharp, red object in my path, twist the door handle, and then run out into the street. I slam it shut behind me and run, run down past the trees, the gravel of the unsealed road digging into my feet.
I run until my breath comes in short, sharp gasps that make my chest shudder. I run until water seeps from the corners of my eyes, streaking out past my temples, no doubt giving me that desirable panda effect.
I turn left, I run; I turn right, I run. I go straight through several intersections until the stitch in my side is stabbing and the throbbing in my head, merciless. I double over and rest my hands on my knees, trying to slow my breathing, to gain some semblance of control over my body. I have no idea where I am. I have no idea where I’ve been.
“One,” I whisper, holding my breath for the imaginary
one thousand
. “Two.”
One thousand.
“Three.”
One thousand.
By the time I reach ten, my breathing is a distant cousin of normal, and I straighten up and try to think again.
I dial Kate’s number, but she doesn’t pick up. I think about calling a taxi, but I don’t have my purse on me, and what would I say, anyway? Please pick me up from number four I-Have-No-Freaking-Clue Street? Do you accept pretend payment?
Think, Stacey, think
. I massage my temple with my left hand, my right still clutching my phone and bra.
Noise. Head toward traffic, then you can work out what street you’re on, and try figure a way to get home.
I shut my eyes and concentrate on the noises around me. The chirping of birds—not helping. Traffic. The sound of cars, yes. Coming from … from the right. Yes. The right.
I pick up my pace, trying to ball my bra into a fist-sized package. The underwire makes it a little difficult, and for the first time in my life I curse myself for buying a bra that’s sexy instead of practical. Seconds later, I banish the thought from my brain and send up a mental apology to La Perla for ever thinking that way.