Haunted

Chapter 4:

Ashley

I woke up the next morning hungover and cranky from a night of restless sleep. I had tossed and turned for what felt like hours before finally passing out. My alarm continued to scream from my nightstand. With a tremendous amount of effort, I rolled over and slammed my hand against the off button. As I lay there in the ensuing silence, two thoughts crossed my mind; One, why the Hell had I drank so much, and two, why hadn't I left myself more of a buffer to recover from my vacation before going back to work?

Groaning, I got up and trudged to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. God, I looked awful. Thanks to my little breakdown last night, I had slept with my makeup on and now smudges of lipstick competed for dominance with streaks of mascara running down my cheeks. My hair, at least, was still somewhat passable. I finished washing my face and then pinned the sides of my hair back with a few sparkly barrettes. That was all I had the energy for. My head was pounding. I dabbed some concealer under my eyes, applied a lighter shade of pink lip gloss, and went to change into my scrubs.

I was extremely thankful that Dr. Rutters allowed his receptionists to wear scrubs. It took the guesswork out of deciding what to wear each day, and made mornings like these(not that there were many of them— I couldn't remember the last time I had drank to the point of waking up with a hangover) so much more bearable.

Unfortunately, even with my somewhat sloppy and rushed morning routine, I was still running behind by the time I laced up my sneakers, leaving me no time to brew any coffee. Another wonderful side effect of drinking and passing out, I thought sullenly. Forgetting to set the automatic brew timer. With an aggravated sigh, I grabbed my sunglasses, purse, and car keys off the end table and headed out to my car.

Twenty five minutes later, I walked through the waiting room of Dr. Nicolaas Rutters's office, a cup of cheap ass gas station coffee in my hand. It was burnt and tasted as though the clerks had let it sit overnight and then simply reheated it this morning, but it was hot and loaded with caffeine and that was all that mattered. I set the styrofoam cup on the desk, dropped my purse on the floor, and slumped into my chair and covered my eyes with the palms of my hands.

Marisol, the other receptionist, looked up for her calendar. "Mierda!" she exclaimed softly, her brown eyes wide with surprise. "You look like Hell, Ashe."

"Thanks," I muttered. "I feel like it, too."

"What happened?"

I resisted the urge to sigh. I didn't want to think about Zach and how I easily misconstrued his intentions. "I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say that I got overly familiar with a bottle of wine last night."

"Say no more." she said. She pulled open her drawer and slid a packet of Tylenol across the surface of the desk.

I took it, grateful for her quiet acceptance and understanding. "What's our morning look like so far," I asked after I had washed down the pills with a big swig of coffee.

Marisol swiveled back around in her chair and pulled up the appointment calendar, her acrylic nails clacking against the keyboard as she typed. The two of us had worked out a great system. One of us would handle the phone appointments in the morning and the other would work with the patients coming into the office. Then, after lunch we'd switch. Today I was on the phones first.

"Kind of scattered," she replied. "He's booked through the morning, but then it tapers off in the afternoon. Oh, and Teresa Gisbert left a voicemail this morning cancelling her appointment at two o'clock. I've already taken her off today's schedule, but we still need to bill her for the forty dollar cancellation fee."