Until my Last Breath

51

The first thing I register is the dull throbbing in my skull, each pulse of pain reminding me that I went too far last night. My limbs feel heavy, my throat dry, my stomach twisted in something worse than nausea.

I pry my eyes open, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through my curtains. My room. I'm in my own bed. That should bring me some comfort, but it doesn't. If anything, it unsettles me more.

Because I don't remember getting here.

I push myself up, slowly, bracing for the dizziness that follows. My sheets are tangled around me, my dress from last night discarded in a heap on the floor. My phone is on my nightstand, screen-down, and something in my chest tightens before I even reach for it.

The moment I flip it over, the screen floods with notifications-missed calls, unread messages, too many to process at once. My heart stutters when I see the name at the top.

Pablo.

My fingers hesitate before tapping the chat.

-Rita, where are you?
-Tell me where you are.
-Rita, please, talk to me.
-I need to know you're okay.
-I'm outside your house.

My stomach drops.

Outside my house?

My eyes flicker toward the window as if expecting to see him still there, but of course, he's gone. I don't know how long ago he sent that message, how long he waited, or-worse-if I saw him.

Did I talk to him? Did I say something I shouldn't have?

A sickening wave of panic washes over me. My memories from last night are fragmented, blurred by alcohol and emotion. I remember the club, the suffocating heat, the overwhelming noise. Lando's voice, steady but teasing. My phone in my hand.

And then...

My breath catches. The call.

I press two fingers to my temple, as if I can force the memory to resurface, but it's all just flashes. I remember Pablo's voice on the other end. I remember the way my chest tightened, the words spilling from my lips too fast, too raw, too honest.

But what did I say?

My pulse pounds as I scroll further, but there are no more texts from him. Nothing explaining if I met him, if we spoke in person, if I made a complete fool of myself. Just those five messages.

I run a shaky hand through my hair, trying to breathe past the gnawing unease. Then, from down the hall, I hear it-pans clattering, the low hum of someone moving around in the kitchen.

Lando.

For a brief moment, relief washes over me. At least I wasn't alone. At least he was here.

But then another thought follows, tightening my throat.

Lando was here.

And if Pablo showed up... he knows.

I move quickly, slipping out of bed despite the way my body protests. My legs feel weak, like they might buckle under me at any second, but I push forward, following the smell of coffee and something frying.

When I step into the kitchen, I find Lando standing at the stove, spatula in one hand, his phone in the other. He's still in his clothes from last night, just minus the jacket, his hair a mess. If he notices me lingering by the doorway, he doesn't acknowledge it at first.

"You're up," he finally says, not turning around.

"Yeah." My voice is hoarse, my throat sore, like I spent the night crying or screaming or both.