Rough Around the Edges (12 page)

Eventually, he succeeded. His throat burned as he crossed the living room, gaze fixed on the sink. He’d meant to fill and drink another glass of water after taking his pills, but then he’d dropped the tumbler and everything had gone to shit. He’d get a drink while Ally was in the bathroom. He just—

The world exploded in pain and light, both stronger than any of the agony he’d experienced yet that night. Darkness warred with the multi-colored spots dancing in front of his eyes, threatening to invade his vision and plunge him into unconsciousness. He felt the pull of it and the way his body wanted to give in, but pure fury kept him alert. Sort of.

Literally blinded by the light, he reached out. His fingertips encountered the smooth wood-paneled side of the island countertop that divided the kitchen area from the living area. What the fuck? He was on the floor beside it, and he didn’t even remember falling.

Rage boiled inside him, heating his face. Or maybe that was blood streaming down. Yeah. “Fuck!” That was what it was. It dripped down onto the linoleum, dotting the floor with redness that quickly began to puddle.

He was living in the past, always a few moments behind. He did things – things like dropping glasses and falling and hurting himself – and he didn’t even realize until it was over, until it was too late. That was the most infuriating thing of all, the thing about himself – and there were a lot of things – that he hated the most.

Sometimes his mind failed like a train jumping off its tracks, leaving him disconnected with the things that were going on around him and even happening to him, with the timeline that the rest of the world was living on. He was a fucking train wreck.

Ally came out of the bathroom and arrived on the scene of his latest disaster at the worst possible moment, before he’d had a chance to even try to stand. The sound of her footsteps echoed through his skull, amplifying the ache inside, and he was hyper-aware of the fact that he wasn’t just sitting on the floor but slumping, defeat bending his spine, evident in every last goddamn vertebra.

“You’re bleeding.” He didn’t realize she’d crouched beside him until she spoke and her breath rushed against his ear.

He was doing it again – living in the past, a few moments behind her, behind everyone.

“You need to sit back down.”

She gripped him by the arm, her two-handed hold firm around his bicep. She actually pulled him to his feet, more or less – he put as much effort into standing as he could, but there was no denying that she steadied him.

He swore as she guided him toward the couch. What did it matter? The night was already shit, and if he hadn’t scared her off by yelling ‘fuck’ loud enough that it had probably been heard on all four floors, what was a little more swearing?

When the edge of the couch bumped his knee he sank down onto it. This time, he wouldn’t drift off or become lost inside his own head. He’d stay awake for every miserable moment that passed until she left.

“Wait right here,” she said, “I’m going to get a towel.”

It was a surprise when she actually returned with one less than a minute later. It was one of the hand towels from the bathroom closet – it was lucky that he’d even had a clean one in there.

“Here.” She held the towel aloft. “For your head. If you’ll just move your hand…”

He’d been pressing his palm over the wound by his temple in an effort to keep from staining the carpet and couch with blood.

The stuff welled out and began to stream down his face as soon as he removed his hand.

Ally pressed the towel against his head, stanching the flow.

He was still as she lifted and then quickly replaced it.
“I’m no expert, but you might want to think about stiches.”

“No. No, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Are you sure? I could drive you. You have to be in so much pain.”

“I’m sure. I’ve got butterfly bandages in the medicine cabinet.” There had to be at least a couple left.

“If you can hold the towel against your head, I’ll go look for those butterfly bandages.”

He raised a hand, negotiating her soft skin and the cheap towel’s rough cotton weave. When he had a good hold on it, she let go.

“Let me see that towel.” She was back before he knew it, taking the towel and taking over, wetting it with water from the kitchen sink and pressing it to his head again, washing the blood away.

“All done,” she said after pressing the bandage in place.

He could feel it holding his parted skin together, and blood was no longer tricking past his hairline and down his face. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She pursed her lips as she looked at him, her gaze drifting back and forth between the bandage and the kitchen, as if she were wondering whether another trip there would demolish her handiwork. “Was there something you wanted from the kitchen?”

“A glass of water.” It seemed like a stupid thing to admit now, after all the trouble it had caused.

“I’ll get it for you.”

She swept out of the room. The only hurry she seemed to be in was a hurry to help him. Had she called a cab? No, it would’ve arrived already, and she would’ve said something about it.

He accepted the glass she brought him, his fingers brushing hers, and drank it all.

“More?” she asked.

“No.”

She took the glass back to the kitchen.

Just like he hadn’t been able to stop her from helping him, he couldn’t stop his eyes from closing, or exhaustion from consuming him, shielding him from whatever unbearably nice thing she’d do next.

* * * * *

When he opened his eyes, it was only to find himself inside another dream. He was on the couch, not his bed, which wasn’t really that weird, but Ally was beside him, and that sure as hell was. She was slumped against the cushions and her fingers were curled inside the shelter of his. He didn’t pull his hand away, but raised his other one and raked it over his skull, through his hair. He was hot from sleeping in his jacket, his hair was damp with sweat and—

Fuck
. His fingertips hit a speed bump in the form of a bandage, right above his temple. A twinge of pain flared where he’d touched the bandage, and he knew he was awake. Not because of the pain – he dreamed about pain all the time – but because of the sense of reality that had settled deep into his bones, reminding him of what had happened the night before.

He dared to look at Ally again and quickly became caught up in studying the splay of her dark locks against the couch cushions, the shell of her exposed ear and the look of thoughtless peace she wore when she slept, so unlike the expressions of worry and determination he’d glimpsed on her face the night before.

Slowly, he withdrew his fingers from her grasp.

She’d held his hand all night, had slept beside him. For a moment, panic gripped him by the throat like an angry dog, threatening to shake him until every last bit of calm left him. He’d fucked everything up, and in that moment, he was even more aware of that fact than he’d been the night before, when it had all been happening.

The panic was short-lived and quickly gave way to a sense of resignation. What was done was done. He could at least make her breakfast. It was a small thing, but it was something he could do for her.

Feeling half sick with sweat and heat, he peeled off his jacket, pulled his shirt over his head and threw that aside, too. Normally, the apartment’s air felt stuffy, but compared to the sauna his clothing had become, it was heaven against his bare skin.

There was a carton of eggs in the fridge, plus some bacon, if he remembered correctly. He pulled two frying pans out of the drawer beneath the stove, careful not to bang them against anything. After smearing the inside of each pan with butter, he turned one of the front burners on, got out the bacon, set the eggs aside on the counter and started cooking.

He’d never thought of raw bacon as having much of a smell before, but as he laid down strip after strip, filling the pan, the odor of it rose up to meet him, and it wasn’t like the smell of cooked bacon.

The pain in his head was gone. In its place was a different sensation – not pain but not pleasure, just a strange feeling that reminded him of where he’d hurt the night before. He’d thought he was off the hook – that feeling usually meant he was.

Not this morning. Throwing down the package of bacon, he turned on his heel and sprinted for the bathroom, pulling the door shut as quickly as he could before heaving his stomach’s entire contents into the toilet.

It was mostly water and bile. The chicken, waffles and coffee he’d consumed the night before had already been digested, thank God. If he’d had to puke all that up, he would’ve been stuck heaving in the bathroom for an eternity and probably would’ve woken Ally up.

He rose, straining for any sound of her stirring, of her waking up and wondering why the hell she’d stayed.

He rinsed the bitter bile from his mouth before it could burn a hole in his tongue and used four capfuls of mouthwash before exiting the bathroom.

He was back at the stove before the bacon began to sizzle. Ally would never know.

She woke up a couple minutes later. Her timing left him feeling lucky as he turned over strips of bacon in the pan. Now that it was cooked and he’d puked his guts out, the smell wasn’t repulsive anymore. “Morning,” he called as her footsteps sounded on the carpet and then the linoleum, the only sound besides the sizzling bacon. “I didn’t want to wake you up. I tried to keep the noise down.”

He finally understood the meaning of the expression ‘pins and needles’ as he stood there with a fork in hand, mindlessly prodding the bacon as he waited for her to say something – anything.

Chapter 7

“It was the smell that woke me up.”

She didn’t sound mad. She didn’t sound anything, really, other than tired. Suspended in uncertainty, he continued jabbing at the bacon. He was practically stabbing it now, poking the crisped meat full of tiny holes. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Sunny side up.”

She hadn’t left yet – that was something. In fact, she’d come close and was practically standing by his side.

One more step and she was there, her arm almost brushing his. “How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“Your migraine is gone?”

“Yeah.” His stomach clenched, as if he might puke again. But there was nothing left inside it, and he willed the feeling to pass as he cracked several eggs over the second frying pan. “Sorry about last night. Guess I put you through hell.”

“It’s all right.” She sounded just like she had the night before – sure. She didn’t move as she stood beside him, watching
him
instead of watching him cook.

He could feel her gaze on the side of his face but couldn’t meet it. Not yet.

A bubble of wry humor rose up inside him. “It wasn’t how I envisioned our second date ending. If you’d told me yesterday that I’d be cooking breakfast for you in the morning, I would’ve assumed things had gone a lot better.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I stayed. I didn’t know what else to do.” For the first time, there was a note of uncertainty in her voice.

“I’m sorry I ruined our date.” He finally stopped messing with the bacon and faced her. “But I’m not sorry you’re here.” Even though a part of him wanted to be, he wasn’t.

For a few seconds, she just stood there, holding his gaze. He knew exactly what her eyes looked like, had practically memorized the color the first time he’d met her. They still took him by surprise. There was just something about waking up and looking into them after spending the night with her, even if the night had been a disaster.

“Neither am I.”

He turned away then. He had to. Not just because the eggs were in danger of burning on one side, but because the truthfulness in her eyes had seared him, scared him. Why wasn’t she sorry?