the sitter | lewandowski

twenty two

22; some kind of drug

Saoirse woke up the next morning with a wicked hangover and the sound of Robert banging things around in the kitchen, probably desperately attempting to cook something.

Letting out a breath, she sat up. She usually got lucky with alcohol, and rarely ever experienced a hangover like this one—so as to why she was experiencing one, she was unsure—but she knew she couldn't act surprised.

She blinked a few times. The first thing she noticed was the fire, enough to make her remember everything from the night before; or most of what had taken place. She smiled a little, and her eyes darted to the Christmas tree. There were still unopened presents under it.

Robert entered the living room of their brand new place, a mug and a plate in his hands. Saoirse quickly covered her chest, leaving him to raise his eyebrows. "Are you trying to act bashful, Saoirse?"

"Maybe I am bashful."

"I don't think you were being very bashful when you nearly rode me off to oblivion last night." Robert noted, placing a plate and the mug on the coffee table. He still had a gravelly morning voice, and his hair was sexily disheveled; he was shirtless but had on last night's trousers.

Saoirse smiled at his remark and allowed him to pry her hands away from her chest, feeling her face redden once he kissed her knuckles, softly, then her forehead. "I made you a hangover omelette. And some tea. I'm not a top chef or anything, but my father used to make this for me whenever I came home after a party. It always worked."

Saoirse breathed in. "Well, it smells good."

Robert smiled a little. "It probably won't taste as good."

Saoirse cut a piece of the omelette and spoke. "Do you miss him any, your father?"

"From time to time." Robert responded, as Saoirse began to chew the meal he'd made her. "But always during the holidays, when I'm with my family. Even though our relationship wasn't the best, we were a family. And when someone's gone, it just isn't the same."

"I think it hurt my mother the most, though. That's why it hurts me ten times more. My mother really loved him. It always amazed me." Robert shook his head a little and looked into the distance. "My father was stubborn, apathetic. He'd always been rich, but marrying my mother was an act of love. She loved him not for his money, but for him...and I always told myself that when I grew up, I was going to find myself someone to love me like that." Cynically, he laughed. "But now I've ended up with Ivana, and I'm just like the man I somewhat despised."

Saoirse covered half of her face with the mug she held as she silently swallowed, her eyes wide. "Well, I love you."

Robert leant forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Saoirse spoke again.

"I wish you weren't so hard on yourself, Robert. This is the right thing. There's no better way to honor your father's memory than keeping his dream alive."

"Sure," Robert responded, "But as a father myself, I don't know how I feel about it. I wouldn't want Nova feeling like her sole life's purpose is to fulfill my wishes—even after I'm gone, you know? I want her to do what makes her happy. I want her to be happy."

"Then you aren't anything like your father." Saoirse responded, simply. "And you shouldn't feel so guilty."

Robert sighed. "Well, enough of that. I...I think we have something else that we really have to talk about." He spoke, stuttering slightly.

Cluelessly, Saoirse blinked. "Which is?"

Robert frowned. "You were drunk. I guess you don't remember."