Where the Stars Fall

42 | Trust

A SOFT, SOOTHING VOICE tries to reach out to me through the light buzzing in my ears. I strain to turn my head. My pulse is thumping in my temples and I've got a god-awful headache screaming inside, demanding I leave my head right where it is, burrowed into the pillow.

I think it's raining. Yes, I can hear a soft patter of rain against the window and even that, along with a sour mix of regret and self-resentment, makes my head pound even harder.

Where am I? Is this hell?

Shit. My mouth tastes like sawdust.

Yes, this is hell for sure.

"Brian?" Another whisper.

Who's this?

My eyes struggle to open against the blistering daylight, but, dammit, the ceiling doesn't stop spinning and I'm so drowsy!

My eyelids fall shut again.

What the fuck happened last night?

Leave it, I don't want to know. My head is banging like crazy, I think it might explode.

"Love?" The same familiar voice murmurs, its warm breath caressing my face and rocking me gently, one hand on my chest, the other stroking my hair. "Hey, wake up. You fell asleep on the sofa again."

Olivia, is that you?

My eyes flicker open, but I remain still, completely still, just looking at her. There are many emotions coursing through me right now, mostly relief, but also a mix of anger and frustration I can hardly contain.

"Why're you sleeping here again?" Her voice is soft, as soft as the hand that strokes my stubble. She lets out a nervous giggle. "Please, don't tell me there's another woman in our bed."

"What? No." The words struggle to escape my throat.

"I know," she says, with another nervous smile trembling on her lips. "I must have called you a thousand times, but it always went straight to voice mail. What happened?"

You called?

I need to sit up. Based on the severity of the state you're in, sitting up is usually a stunt that can take anything from a couple of minutes to twenty-four hours. God help me, my head is throbbing, everything is fuzzy and the dizziness in my brain is nearly killing me. I have absolutely no idea how I ended up sleeping here, all I know is that I'm about to find out how massive my hangover is.

I force my battered body up. "I don't know, last thing I remember I was in the nursery room, flipping through some old photographs, and talking to a wall," I tell her, evenly, rubbing my palms against my temples. "What day is this, anyway?"

"Monday. It's almost 10. You okay?"

Shit!

"I need a coffee. And a shower."

"I'm getting you a warm mug of ginger tea to settle things down. Coffee will only dehydrate you more."

The idea makes me shudder. "That crap you drink when you're nauseous? Thank you, but no. I'm not going–"

She's already disappeared into the kitchen.

I push myself up from the sofa and stagger along the hallway towards the bathroom, the awareness I'm no longer master of the fine art of recovering from a night of drinking dawning hard on me.

I reach the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and horribly sunken, my face so pale, my lips dry. I rub my cottony tongue over my lips; it feels like sandpaper on raw wood.