Bliss

eight

This is why I don't drink.

The pounding head, bleary eyes and mounting nausea aren't worth the fleeting hours of fun. I'd much rather stay home. After all, ice cream and cake provide the exact same rush as a night out. That, and the comedown from a sugar coma is always easier than the comedown from alcoh—

Why the hell is the ceiling fan white?

Mine is brown, right? Like I'm not crazy. It's totally brown.

But if this ceiling fan is white, then where the hell am I?

I take a deep breath, hold it, and turn to my left. Pursuing my lips, I stop the exhalation of air as a gasp struggles to the surface.

Shit.

How did I end up here?

With him.

In his bed.

In his clothes?

I roll onto my back and lift the duvet. A black cotton t-shirt swamps my body. In his clothes, then.

Right, so I'm in his bed, in his clothes, in his house. He's asleep, which is a blessing, and by the sounds of it, no one else is awake. If I'm quick, careful, I can be out of here and in my own room in a heartbeat. All I need is my phone, dress, and shoes. Henry might be up. If not, I'll have to call Paula.

Henry better be awake. He's so much easier.

Okay, so phone, dress, shoes, Henry.

Phone, dress, shoes, Henry.

The list repeats itself as I slide my right leg out of bed. I place my foot on the floor, the left following suit, and stand up. Tiptoeing, I notice my dress. It's folded neatly at the foot of the bed with my phone on top and my trainers beside it. The setup is perfect.

With my belongings in hand, I continue to the door. It's ajar. I run a finger along the handle and coax it open, but the hinges creak, and I cringe away. Throwing my shoulders back, I slip through the crack, careful not to make any more noise. My back grazes against the lock. I hiss as it scrapes against my arm too. It leaves a localised stinging sensation raging in its wake, but I'm free.

Once I'm out of the room, my feet practically jumping over the threshold, I waste no time running down the hall and bursting out the front door. My phone is pressed against my ear as the door closes behind me. Henry picks up almost instantly and offers me frantic hello.

"Where have you been?" he asks, a loud bang slicing through his words.

"Doesn't matter. I just need you to let me in."

"You're outside?"

"Yes, Henry, I'm outside. Let me in!"

"Okay, okay." His exasperation is palpable. It seems impossible that just a few seconds ago, he was worried about me.

As I wait, I tip my head back and sigh. The sound floats up into the early morning air. It bounces between the clouds. I can see it, see the sheer smoke jumping in a jaunty pattern, leaving a faint trail through the otherwise unspoilt blue. Then Henry opens the door, and his grumbled hello ruins the pureness of the moment.

"Could you be any louder?" I groan, pushing past him.

"Yes." He follows and clamps a hand on my shoulder to twirl me around. "I could be, so tell me where the hell you were."

I bite my lip and peer up, trying my best to mimic the puppy dog eyes of childhood. I haven't done them in years, haven't needed to pout and beg, but they used to work a treat. "You promise you won't tell?" I ask, my voice small and meek.