Forever Could Be Ours

Chapter 29. | Unspoken Words

ALEXANDER

"How are you feeling?"

I know judging someone by their morning look is fucking rude, but the smeared mascara stains and ruined red lipstick make Meredith look like a circus clown on crack.

Sprawled on the couch with a woolen blanket and her cheek pressed against the cushion, she looks at me as if I've come to prepare her for her sudden death. I see how the black hoodie draped over my head kind of resembles the Grim Reaper, but instead of carrying a scythe, I'm holding a steamy cup of ginger tea.

Meredith's groan wrecks with pain as she attempts to sit, her platinum blonde hair looking like a birdnest preparing for a litter of hatchlings.

"Why do I feel like I've donated all my organs for a fleeting moment of pleasure, only to have them returned completely wrecked?"

That's an awful lot of words coming from someone who still hasn't opened her eyes.

Her face conveys a sense of distress as she accepts the hot beverage without hesitation. "How embarrassing was I?"

Tristan shoots me a look of concern from behind the kitchen island where he stands with a cup of coffee. "You don't remember anything from last night?"

Confusion flashes in her eyes, punctuated by the throbbing in her temples from looking over her shoulder. "Not really." One hand still holds the tea while the other rubs a spot on her forehead that makes her eyes squeeze shut.

You can practically see the invisible hammer driving its way through her skull.

"But I guess judging from the look on Reid's face, it's bad." Her grey eyes advert back to mine. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the windows facing the yard. Messy brown hair peeks out from the hemline of my hood, the roots sore and close to bleeding from all the anxious tugging. Dark circles dominate the skin under my eyes, shadowed like bruises, a deep contrast to the brightness of my crystal blue irises.

I look like the one who got spiked last night, and I barely touched my beer. Without assuming the worst of Marcus Bay, it would surprise me if he hadn't emptied it before falling asleep.

We barely made it to the car before Meredith puked all over herself and the pavement, claiming that she was close to dying. I continued talking to the PCH, seeking information and advice on how to get the situation under control while Tristan cleaned her face and tucked her into the seat.

The medical secretary suggested keeping a close eye on her, continuously checking her breathing, and assuring she didn't fall out of consciousness during the first hour. As long as she remained conscious and able to communicate, the secretary advised that it would be better to sleep it off at home than admit her to the ER.

Lastly, she suggested reporting the incident to the police, which made me nearly drop the phone into the puddle of vomit. As much as I want the rightful convicts brought to justice, the mere thought of involving the authorities terrifies me.

Technically speaking, Meredith didn't witness anything unseemly last night. Surely, my arm was draped around Hayleigh's waist, but it was hidden at a blind angle thanks to the bedroom door.

It's the unexplainable encounter of coming out of the same bedroom that has my mind chanting what-ifs and unanswered questions I don't know the answer to because I haven't gotten the chance to ask Meredith what she saw–

"You were there?"

I blink rapidly. "What?"

"I didn't even know you showed up at Dami's party." She takes a sip of the steamy tea, grimacing when she swallows. "God–Reid, this is horrible."