My Favourite Part

39: a drunk tongue

The silver lining to being awake this late is that there's nothing to do but watch the dawn – layers of disappearing blues and hazy, promising pinks, holding everything and nothing all at once. There's a sad sinking in my chest as I sit and observe; although, I don't know if the dawn is to blame for that.

I don't think I've ever felt as stupid as I did getting back on that elevator alone. The lace under my PJs scratches me when I shift for the twentieth time, trying to get comfortable in the cold king-size. All things considered, it's an ironic sensation that both pisses me off and makes me want to cry simultaneously.

Why was Eric trying so hard to get rid of me? 'You've got to go back upstairs, Evie' 'You don't have to answer that, Evie'. His tight grip and gritted teeth made me feel like a child, incapable of speaking or acting for myself, and that hurt like hell. But the relief in his eyes when I left made me feel a thousand times worse. It was like he couldn't get me out of there fast enough. Like he was embarrassed by me.

I lied. There's no play at The Old Vic on Thursday. But that doesn't matter. All that matters is that he wanted me away so badly, that he didn't hear my Thursday. It's stupid, but I guess that's what's got me the most worried.

A nagging thought has made its way from my periphery into my eyeline, and I feel it staring me in the face. It's lingered all night, and now that it's got me where it wants me, it's smug. I'm not good enough to be here. Just like Kitty and Lolly whispered in my ear, clawed onto my arm.

I spoke too soon in that limo when I told Eric that I felt like I fit. I let the shiny dress and the warm town car interior fool me. I don't fit here. I feel like a spectator in it all, watching from above. From up here, it doesn't look right; it doesn't feel right. The migraine's closing in, and my heavy eyes have been threatening to close all morning. But before I let them, my last, horrible thought is that maybe I've got myself wrong. Maybe I'm not made for what I thought I wanted at all.

⏤

I don't know how long I was asleep for, but the sky is lightening when I hear clattering up the stairs. There's a sudden thud that makes me sit up stock-still.

"Ouch." Oh.

"Eric?"

He doesn't answer straight away, but after a moment more of noisy fumbling, the room lights up. He's steadying himself with a hand still on the light switch.

"Hi," he says, with a lazy smirk that makes him look like his father.

"Hi."

I've only ever seen him tipsy. I've only ever smelt him cedarwood-scented – not reeking of rum or whatever drink he's clearly had too much of. He pouts at me when I don't return his smile.

"Evie..." he drawls, "you're not cross with me, are you?"

I shrug. Cross isn't the word, but I don't know what is. "No. Not cross."

"Good," he grins, groaning as he flops onto his stomach on the bed. "I waited all night to see you. Don't want you to be cross."

He's controlling it well, but I can hear him slurring his words. He grabs my foot over the duvet and tickles it with a teasing smile. Even this drunk, with his bleary eyes and golden hair all over the place, he's still as charming as ever. I giggle, of course, and I want this to be it – for this to mean that everything's fine, but I have to say something. It'll eat away at me if I don't.

"You didn't have to wait all night though..." I say it quietly, looking at my chipped blue nail polish before I look up at him, but he's preoccupied, mumbling something about 'this little piggy' and wiggling my toes.