The Art of Starting Over

Chapter 53 - Women... Not Bottles

It's four in the morning and I sit bolt upright in bed at the sound of a loud crash followed by a string of curses. I rush out of my bedroom afraid that Jeremy's father's turned up here again but instead, I find Jeremy laughing his head off, hanging onto the dining table to keep from falling onto the mosaic of broken glass at his feet. The beautiful dark green vase that sat on the table for God knows how long is splattered into a trillion pieces.

"Uh oh! Mummy won't be happy about that," he garbles clutching his side and snorting like a little boy.

I look at him perplexed and for a millisecond our eyes connect before he sprints to the bathroom. I hear him vomit his guts into the toilet and I groan.

I follow after him and rub between his shoulders. Surprised he doesn't push me away, I turn him to wipe his clammy face with a wet cloth, sling his arm over my shoulder and squeeze his ribs a bit, urging him to stand.

"Come on, Boss," I sigh when he doesn't budge. "This is going to have to be a team effort."

He smirks at me sloppily, somehow still looking absolutely stunning. "Team effort? That kind of defeats the purpose of being the Boss, doesn't it? Big Boss."

I roll my eyes at him. "Come on! Let's get you to bed."

"Big Boss!" he says raising a finger.

"What?"

"Let's get you to bed, Big Boss!" he corrects. Then a sly grin splits his face. "Hmm... I like how that sounds. Fuck! Say that to me, Sparky."

"Quit it!" I say irritably tugging on his arm, all but squirming under the devilish look he's giving me. "Come on, Jer, get up!"

He finally stands on his feet and I guide him across the open plan. I pause apprehensively at the door. I have never been inside his den before. But he swings it open and gestures grandiosely for me to go in.

It's a beautiful room. Almost as big as the bedroom. He has a great bookshelf stacked with books, tons of which are old classics. I smile as my eyes fall on the copies of Pride and Prejudice and Wuthering Heights, my mind going back to when I teased him about being Mr Darcy and he insisted he was a self-proclaimed Heathcliff.

He plops onto the large sofa bed in the corner of the dark room and I help him out of his clothes, fully-aware of his eyes scanning me the whole time. I kneel in front of him as he sits on the edge of the bed and my fingers start to tremble as they fumble with his shoe laces. The last time I was this close to him, I was the one drunk out of my wits and he was the one undressing me. It was easier then. I breathe out slowly, positively sure that he can smell how much I miss him.

I remove one shoe then the other, then I keep my eyes down, unsure of what to do next. Jeremy reaches down and lifts my face up from my chin until my eyes are level with his. My heart starts hammering in my chest like a caged maniac. His hand glides down my shoulders, my arm and tightens around my elbow. He applies pressure gently as he guides me to stand up. I close my eyes and hold my breath as he lifts my Beatles t-shirt slightly and kisses my stomach gently, almost worshipping, before resting his cheek against it.

"What are you doing?" I ask, not sure if I'm referring to the way his fingertips are grazing the back of my legs or the sudden change in behaviour towards me.

He looks up as my fingers make their way automatically into his thick hair. He doesn't smile as he answers, "One bottle of whiskey and one woman a day. Sometimes it's two. Women. Not bottles. Or is it the other way round?"

I fight to hold back the strong urge to cry or slap him. So, I turn to leave but he grabs my wrist and breathes out one word.

"Stay."