Under the Grit

Chasing Cars

Evangeline woke to the harsh light of morning pouring through the blinds, her head pounding like a drum in her skull. The remnants of last night lingered in the haze between sleep and reality, and with a groan, she turned her face away from the brightness, burrowing into the pillow. Everything felt heavy—her body, her thoughts, the thick fog of the hangover pressing down on her like a weight.

She blinked slowly, her eyes adjusting to the light. Alone. She was alone in the bed.

Fragments of the previous night drifted back in bits and pieces—the whiskey, the broken glass, Arthur's voice on the phone, steady and warm despite her slurring words. Her hand drifted to her side, touching the space where she vaguely remembered him carrying her, his arms firm and gentle as he'd brought her upstairs.

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. Arthur had been there. He'd helped her to bed after the bath, but everything past that was a blur. She remembered feeling the warmth of the bathwater and Arthur's awkward but comforting presence, even though he stayed outside the bathroom door. Her thoughts skipped over details, landing on the sound of his voice, the way he'd cleaned up her mess and made sure she wasn't alone.

She winced, both at the pounding in her skull and the sharp sting of embarrassment. God, what had she said? She could remember some of it—the messy, desperate rambling about being enough, the sultry way she'd asked him to stay. She groaned, pressing her hands to her face as if she could wipe away the shame pooling in her gut.

But she couldn't quite banish the one thing she remembered most clearly: the way Arthur had cared for her, without hesitation, without judgment. He'd been there when she needed him, even when she hadn't deserved it. The thought sent a strange warmth through her, though it did little to ease the shame gnawing at the edges of her mind.

With a soft sigh, she pushed herself up, cradling her head as the room swayed slightly. Her gaze drifted to the water and headache medicine he'd left on the nightstand, a small gesture that reminded her of the quiet kindness he'd shown.

Evangeline reached for the glass of water and headache medicine on the nightstand, her fingers trembling slightly as she picked up the pills. She downed them with a few large gulps of water, sighing in relief as the cool liquid soothed her dry throat. The pounding in her head dulled a little, though she knew it would take a while for the full effects to kick in.

She sat there for a moment, letting the quiet of the morning sink in. The house felt still, almost too still, after the storm of emotions and chaos from the night before. The memories of it made her cringe, and she shook her head as if trying to dislodge the regret that clung to her like a second skin.

With a soft groan, she forced herself out of bed, her legs wobbly but steady enough to carry her to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, watching as droplets slid down her skin and dripped into the sink. The reflection staring back at her looked rough—her eyes were puffy, and her hair a tangled mess, but she wasn't surprised. After last night, she was just grateful she wasn't still lying in a puddle of self-pity on the kitchen floor.

She brushed her teeth, the minty taste a welcome relief from the stale whiskey that clung to her mouth, and washed her face again. As she towel-dried her face, she caught sight of her bandaged hand, the reminder of her carelessness the night before. Arthur had wrapped it. The thought sent a flicker of warmth through her, but it was quickly smothered by a wave of embarrassment.

She dressed in clean, comfortable clothes, pulling on a loose t-shirt and sweats, trying not to think too hard about what would come next. What could come next. But her mind kept circling back to Arthur—his voice, his concern, the way he'd stayed just outside the door when she'd asked him to. She couldn't avoid it. He'd been kind when she'd been nothing but a mess.