I HATE THIS HOUSE.
Genuinely despise it with every fiber of my being.
Bad things happen to me in this house, especially when a drunken night is brewing, so it really blows my mind that I keep allowing myself to be dragged back here. The fine art of guilt-tripping has something to do with it.
The girls said if I didn’t go, they weren’t going because hell if they were letting me spend New Year’s Eve alone. Cass as good as said if I didn’t show up—I swear to God, I’ve never attended as many parties as I have this semester and it’s all his fault—he’d turn up at my apartment and kidnap me. Ben seconded that motion.
Two different tactics—both very effective.
So, for the sake of my friends, I peeled myself out of bed and let Luna doll me up even though the last thing I feel like doing is stumbling around the house of the guy I’m avoiding. Or maybe he’s avoiding me. I don’t really know. Both, probably.
An hour of lackluster partying passes and I already wish I told my friends to take a hike.
Another and I’m contemplating fleeing. I would, too, if I didn’t have my own personal entourage keeping track of my every move, trying and failing to coax me into having a little fun.
It’s too hot in here. There are too many people. And there’s nothing to do other than drown my self-made sorrows in rum and cola, exceptionally heavy on the former since Ben made them. While everyone else enjoys themselves, I cower in the corner, sipping and sipping and sipping, getting drunker and drunker and drunker, acting like I’m not constantly scanning the room for Nick when, really, that’s all I’m doing.
I’m unsure whether I’m relieved or disappointed when I keep coming up empty but I’m completely sure that when I finally find him, I wish hadn’t.
Because Nick is not alone.
He’s lurking at the opposite end of the crowded living room, intermittently hidden by swaying bodies, but once my gaze locks on, he doesn’t leave my sight. Nor does the owner of the perfectly manicured hand caressing his muscles.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
It’s that girl. The one who bodychecked me in the pub that one night. Jen-who-fucking-gives-a-shit. I don’t give a crap about her name; all I care about is the way she’s simpering at Nick with big doe eyes, and he’s not even trying to push her away. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s shifting closer, leaning down so she can whisper God knows what in his ear.
Any doubts I might’ve had about Ben’s text being legitimate suddenly fly out the window, replaced with outrage because here I am, feeling fucking awful about hurting him and there he is, getting someone else to lick his wounds. I’m so pissed that it hurts and I’m drunk and that should numb the pain but it’s only making it worse. And then there’s the voice in my head, the one that feels like tiny jabs of a knife in my brain, reminding me that I’ve done this all to myself.
And I don’t think there’s anything I can do to fix it.
And it doesn’t look like he wants me to.
God knows how long later, I stumble upstairs, a feat that takes a helluva lot longer than it should since my limbs stopped cooperating about two drinks ago. It turns out there was something I could do; I could get disgustingly inebriated until I didn’t have to fight the urge to seek out Nick in the crowd because my vision became too blurry to see anything.
The downfall to that; jealousy feeds off alcohol, and I provided it with a feast.
I don’t know if it’s the not-so-little green monster making me nauseous or the mix of spirits sitting heavy in my gut but either way, my spinning head urges me to take a break from the festivities. From the eyes assessing me carefully. From pretending to have fun to appease those eyes and not ruin their night like I ruin everything else.
Staggering down the hallway, I blindly twist the first doorknob my shaky hands find, and I don’t know if it’s fate or karma that sends me tripping into Nick’s room. It’s like instinct brought me here. An internal GPS programmed to eternally point me in his direction.
Fun.
It’s empty, thankfully—I wouldn’t be able to handle anything else—and I relish the relative silence when I shut the door behind me, letting my gaze drift around a room I’m not all that familiar with despite how intimately familiar I am with the man who occupies it.
Our sleepovers occur in the sanctity of my room. The only times I’ve been in here were tainted by dramatic events and too much booze—now included, I guess. I’ve never had the chance to properly take in the bookshelf stuffed to the brim, the desk overflowing with stuff, the large, neatly-made bed.
Choosing the lesser of all evils—or so I think—I collapse into the desk chair, slumping with a heavy exhale. When my gaze snags on the stack of recently developed photos, the only tidy portion of his desk, that exhale gets caught in my throat. I know I shouldn’t snoop but is it really snooping if the first photo is of me?
And the second.
And the third.
The fourth is a sweet, blurry shot of Kate and Sydney, the next a drunk Ben doing a cartwheel in the middle of the street, an event I remember vividly since the kid almost broke his neck and got run over in one fell swoop. All of my friends, our friends, feature but as I carefully flick through, more often than not, it’s my own face staring back at me. My permanently smiling face, eyes bright but never quite looking straight at the lens, always more focused on something slightly above it.
Melancholy settles in my bones, makes my entire body throb painfully. Forcing myself to my feet, I trudge into the bathroom where I know there’s a stash of aspirin. I crouch down, opening the cabinet under the sink and rifling for what my aching head demands.
What I’m met with knocks me flat on my ass.
A fully stocked basket of toiletries hides near the back. At first glance, there’s nothing extraordinary about it. The only reason it catches my eye is because, honestly, I wouldn’t expect Nick to keep amenities for his overnight guests—surely that would rack up quite the bill over time—but it makes sense, I guess.
Like a hotel leaving mints on pillows, I snark silently, liquor making me petty.
When I delve a deeper, unable to help myself, my throat goes dry.
Everything is brand new and unopened. Shampoo, conditioner, curl cream, not only the same brand I use but the exact scent. A miniature bottle of the perfume I favor tucked in beside a box of tampons. A broken laugh escapes me when I spot a toothbrush and Denman brush, both the same shade of dark green.
The first tear burns as it falls, origin unknown. Whether it’s happy or sad one or utterly distraught is a mystery, although it’s more than likely all of the above and more. It’s not alone for long because soon, I’m sobbing so hard, I swear I can be heard over the music thumping downstairs.
I needn’t have worried about Nick breaking my heart. I did it to myself.
I cry all my makeup off. I cry until my cheeks, my neck, my chest, everything is soaked with tears. I cry until my ass goes numb from sitting on the cold bathroom floor for so long. Yet when I’m done crying, when I run out of tears, I make no effort to move; I simply rest my sodden cheek against my knees and stare at the open undersink cabinet, at the basket mocking me.
“Are you okay?”
I flinch at the voice, both the last yet the only I want to hear. My aching eyes cringe at Nick hovering in the doorway. Hands shoved in his pocket, his expression is carefully blank as he follows my line of sight, the only reaction the bob of his throat as he swallows.
“How long?” How long have you had a secret stash of my stuff hidden in your bathroom?
It’s odd, how a simple shrug can cause such a profound pain in my chest. “A while.”
A while. So nonchalant. So casual. Like he does it for everyone when I know, I know, he doesn’t.
I hug my knees tighter to my chest in an effort to alleviate the icy chill his vacant demeanour is causing, tucking my head to hide from him.
When Nick repeats the question I forgot he even asked, I nod, and he huffs. “Words, Amelia.”
“Yes.” The word is snapped, a tiny scowl playing across my face as I tilt my head toward him against my better judgement.
Nick nods stiffly, and it might be an intoxicated illusion but he looks relieved. He looks sad. And I almost forget that I’m mad, that we’re mad at each other. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
Almost.
My haughty laugh echoes around the room. “That makes it okay, then.” When his brow furrows in genuine confusion, I laugh again. “I saw you with her. Jean or whatever. And I know you didn’t go home after you left mine, or the night after.”
Without hesitation, Nick drops to his haunches in front of me, honest to God flames writhing in those golden irises. “I didn’t go home after yours,” he spits but it’s not anger souring the words, it’s frustration, “because I got so shit-faced, I passed out in my car. I spent the entire day in the gym and then I crashed at Luka’s because I didn’t feel like explaining to Cass-” Nick sucks in a breath, shaking his head quickly. “I was in a shit mood and I didn’t wanna go home.”
“But-”
“Enough,” he cuts me off. “Nothing happened with Jean or whatever or with anyone else. Whatever you think you saw, you got it wrong. Maybe you’re too drunk to remember but we have a deal.”
Have. Present tense.
I throttle the hope that flutters in my belly before it gets out of hand, opening my mouth to say God knows what but I’m interrupted once again. “I’m not arguing you with you like this. Take a shower, take a nap, I don’t care. Just sober up.”
Nick doesn’t wait for a response before retreating into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar in his wake. Banging and rustling sounds along with a few muttered foreign curses before another door slams shut, leaving me alone with nothing but suffocating silence.
Slowly, with wobbly legs, I clamber to my feet. I’m on autopilot as I do what he says, showering quickly and not daring to use the stuff beneath the sink because I fear I’m not welcome to it anymore. Wrapped in the towel that was hanging on the back of the door, I pad into the bedroom, unreasonably disappointed when Nick’s really gone, foolishly having hoped he’d be waiting.
Obviously, he isn’t but there is a pile of clothing sitting on his bed. I slip into the t-shirt and boxer briefs all too eagerly, completely enveloped by the smell of citrus and spice as I burrow beneath his sheets. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine he’s lying beside me, and that’s what lets me drift off, what helps me sleep better than I have in days.
The buzzing of my phone combined with obnoxious shouting jerks me awake. I groan as I roll over, burying deeper beneath the covers like that might ward off the freaking marching band causing havoc behind my temples. While the room may no longer be spinning, I’ve clearly traded off one problem for another; sleeping off the alcohol has welcome not only a rum-induced hangover but an emotional one too.
Terrific.
Forcing open an eye, another groan escapes me but it’s one of relief this time. Someone a lot wiser than me anticipated my current dilemma; on the nightstand sits a glass of water begging to be drunk, the two white pills sitting beside it eager to be swallowed.
Not deigning to open my eyes beyond a crack, I prop myself up on an elbow, chasing down the aspirin with greedy gulps of water while begrudgingly checking my incessantly vibrating phone. It’s well after midnight so I’ve missed the main event, not that I care. I didn’t want to celebrate in the first place but I do feel guilty that I disappeared without a word. Although, no one seems particularly concerned.
Cass’ messages are a jumble of words that bear no resemblance to the English language. Ben’s are no better, the only distinguishable thing being a snap of him and a bong. There’s a couple of Kate asking where I am but it’s when I get to Luna that the lack of a search party makes sense; a creative, artistic thread of winky faces, various suggestive emojis, and a woefully misspelled encouragement to ‘get it’ lead me to believe that they know exactly where I am, although the reasoning might be lost.
“You’re awake.”
Water sloshes down my chin as I jump at the sudden declaration, my eyes opening wide for the first time since I woke up as they dart to the man hunched over the desk, an open book balanced in one hand. God, has he been here this whole time?
The question was meant for my mind only but when Nick replies, I gather I accidentally mumbled it aloud. “Didn’t feel like partying,” he drones, an edge to his voice when he adds, “didn’t want you throwing up in my sheets either,” as though he’s annoyed at himself for being concerned.
As though the ruined sheets would be the least of his priorities and he doesn’t like that.
The chair creaks as Nick shifts, silent as he stares, and I swallow hard over a scratchy throat. “I’m sorry.”
A dark brow lifts. “For?”
“Everything.”
“Like?”
I stifle yet another groan. He’s making me work for it, and I deserve that, but I don’t like it. “Snapping at you. Ignoring you. Kicking you out.”
Kissing his teeth, Nick drops his head back to stare at the ceiling, as if he can’t bear looking at me. “Why did you do it?”
I suck in a deep, ragged breath. “I got scared.” There. I admitted it. Baby steps.
“You got scared,” Nick repeats slowly, letting the words fall off his tongue. “Scared of what?”
Him.
Myself.
Us.
The frightening amount I like him.
I have plenty of reason but they get caught in my throat, choking me as much as the horrible tension between us that only I can fix but I can’t.
“Okay then.” With a loud, disappointed sigh, Nick gets to his feet, and I panic as he heads for the door.
Scrambling off the bed, I take a timid step toward him, finally finding my voice but I think it’s too late, “Nick, wait-”
“No.” Nick spins around, teeth gritted and jaw so tense it could shatter. “I need to leave because you are everywhere, all the time, and I can’t fucking think straight. I can’t fucking breathe, Amelia. I can’t stop wanting you and I hate it because you don’t want me.”
Shocks freezes me in place.
He…
What?
I can’t stop wanting you.
I want to ask what exactly that means. I need clarification, affirmation, more than I need air. But I’m too busy drowning in the flood of emotions hitting me like a tsunami, threatening to sweep me off my feet, clogging my throat.
He waits, a strained, desperate look in his eyes but I don’t know what to say. Actually, I do know but my mouth is being awfully uncooperative tonight.
To his credit, he waits longer than I would’ve before giving up.
Broad shoulders slump in utter defeat. “I can’t do this anymore,” he whispers, so quiet yet deafening in their meaning, and it’s like an invisible fist slams into my gut. I’ve been preparing myself for this to end since before it even began yet as it arrives, I squeeze my eyes shut and pray it’s all a dream.
Footsteps inch toward me but I keep my eyes closed, even when hands sweep my hair back and cup my cheeks.“I can’t sneak around,” he continues, and I bite down on a pathetic whimper, “and act like I’m not falling for you because it’s not fucking working. It’s too hard, Amelia.”
My heart stops. The rapid beating ceases as it becomes a vestigial organ in my chest along with lungs that refuse to suck in air.
Falling for you.
Falling for me.
He is falling for me.
Lips brush my forehead before his touch disappears. “I’m yours, Amelia, but I can’t do this anymore.”
He’s falling for me and he’s leaving.
A couple more steps and he’ll reach the door, one more and he’ll be out, and a handful after that, he’ll be downstairs, lost in the crowd, lost to me.
I don’t think; I just move. One second, I’m frozen on the other side of the room. The next, I’m throwing myself between him and the door. “I know what I want,” I blurt out, frantic hands bunching his shirt because maybe if I literally hold him hostage, he won’t leave.
A slow, tentative glimmer of hope lights my favorite pair of eyes, an endearing tremor in my favorite voice as it asks, “And what’s that?”
“You.”
