Under the Grit

Apologize

Evangeline groaned as she stirred, the dull throb of a hangover pulsing in her temples. The room was dimly lit, sunlight seeping in through the edges of the curtains. She pressed a hand to her forehead, her other hand gripping the soft blanket draped over her body. The scent of leather and something earthy surrounded her, unfamiliar yet comforting.

She blinked, trying to orient herself. This wasn't her bed. Panic flared for a brief moment before fragments of the previous night began to filter back into her mind. Arthur. His house. His bed.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, glancing around the room. The simplicity of it, the scattered books and tools, the faint scent of his cologne-it was all unmistakably Arthur's. She rubbed her eyes, groaning again as the pounding in her head grew worse. Her throat was dry, her mouth like cotton, but the confusion was slowly ebbing as the memories settled in.

Right. I was too drunk to go home, and he offered his bed, she reminded herself, leaning back against the headboard. She remembered his steady hand guiding her down the hallway, his voice soft and gentle as he made sure she was settled before stepping out.

But then, another memory hit her-a conversation overheard on the porch, Arthur's voice low and restrained, the words cutting through her like glass.

"Yeah, I did. But it didn't matter."

Her stomach twisted as the memory replayed in her mind. She could still hear the weight of his tone, the way he'd dismissed their kiss like it was nothing. And then there was Mary. The way he'd mentioned her, the quiet guilt in his voice, and John's frustrated retort: "This time?"

Evangeline let out a shaky breath, pressing her palms against her eyes. The night before had been a whirlwind-her performance, the drinks, the dance with Arthur, and now, this mess of emotions she didn't know how to untangle. She'd felt so close to him, so connected, and yet... It didn't matter.

Her chest tightened, the sting of his words mingling with the ache of her hangover. She wanted to be angry, to write him off the way he'd seemingly written her off, but she couldn't shake the flicker of doubt-the part of her that wanted to believe he'd meant something more, that he was just too scared or too conflicted to admit it.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the cool floor beneath her feet helping to ground her. The house was quiet now, the faint hum of morning settling around her. Evangeline ran a hand through her tangled hair, sighing as she braced herself for whatever came next. You can't avoid him forever, she thought, the reality of facing Arthur and everything she'd overheard looming large.

Evangeline sighed and reached for her phone on the nightstand, the dim screen lighting up as she pressed the button. The clock read just past 10 a.m. She frowned slightly, realizing how late she'd slept in, though the pounding in her head made it clear her body had needed the rest. Before she could open her messages or scroll for any updates, the screen went black, her phone dying in her hand.

"Great," she muttered, tossing it back onto the bed with a groan. Rubbing her temples, she stood slowly, the ache in her head intensifying as she moved. Her mouth was dry, and her stomach churned uneasily as she steadied herself on the edge of the bed.

Padding toward the door, she hesitated for a moment, glancing around the room one last time before stepping into the hallway. The faint murmur of voices carried through the house, guiding her toward the kitchen. She walked carefully, each step bringing her closer to the sound of low laughter and clinking dishes.

When she reached the kitchen doorway, she paused. Arthur was standing near the counter, a cup of coffee in hand, his broad shoulders relaxed as he leaned against the edge. Tilly sat at the small table, her usual sharp humor lighting up the room as she teased Javier, who was rummaging through a paper bag filled with pastries.