~ Nick
I wake on the couch in my office, my neck stiff and my head pounding. I groan loudly, forcing my body up into a sitting position. I hear the thud of the bottle as it hits the floor and realise I must have finished off the rest of the $900 bottle of whisky after Emma left this morning. Explains the pounding in my head.
“Fuck,” I murmur, pushing up off the couch.
I pick up the photo off the coffee table, stare at the two of us. It was taken just after we’d signed the lease on this place, a day we marked by buying that very expensive bottle of whisky that’s now all gone.
Just like she is.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I walk towards my desk, replacing the photo in the spot it normally sits. I look around my office, as though trying to work out what the hell happened, as if I can’t remember every single second of it.
I remember it all. From the moment she walked in my door to the minute everything went to shit and she walked back out.
I also remember that I have no idea how I can even find Emma, much less explain to her what happened.
The cell phone on my desk rings, the noise like a freight train slamming into my head. I ignore it, letting it go to voicemail as I slide it into my pocket and head out to the bar in search of something to ease the pain in my head.
I contemplate a hair of the dog drink, but instead, opt for water and some painkillers. I need to go upstairs and take a shower, try and get some proper sleep before coming back to work tonight.
At this point, I’d love to just keep the bar closed, spend the night lying on the couch, nursing my hangover and my pride. But I know I can’t do that and as much as I might want to, I have to work.
I grab my jacket and keys, heading out the front door and turning left. I slide my key in the door next to the bar, the one that leads up to the open plan apartment directly above that I live in. As I do, I lift my shirt to my nose, wondering how bad it is.
But almost instantly I’m hit with the scent of her. The smell so unexpected it sends my body reeling with memories of everything that almost happened last night.
The phone call that we both knew she had to take. The overheard conversation and the hurt and sadness it put in her eyes as a result. Her fingers on my arm, tracing the lines of my tattoo, followed by her lips on mine, her fingers in my hair, mine in hers.
Her body beneath mine.
It’s hard to know exactly which one of us started things. I know I should’ve stopped it but I didn’t.
And then she’d seen the tattooed name, misunderstood the situation and everything had gone so incredibly wrong. Why the fuck hadn’t I said something, explained things?
“Fuck,” I say, slamming the door behind me, wincing at the noise. I stomp up the stairs, my footsteps echoing in the silence even as my mind goes over and over everything that happened from the second I walked into my office to the minute she ran out.
Despite knowing it was a mistake, I still didn’t stop things. I still kissed her, crawled on top of her and let her do whatever it is she wanted to do. Whatever it was she needed to do. Because as much as I know she was doing it because she was hurting, I also knew exactly how she felt.
I might like to pretend I’m okay or that I don’t need to feel that kind of connection or whatever, but it’s all bullshit. There was, is, a big part of me that needed her too. Needed that connection, that second of warmth that comes from being wrapped up in the arms of someone who knows exactly what real pain feels like.
And even though Emma has no idea about what had happened with me, I feel like she knew I needed that just as much as she did. That we were two lost souls, trying to mask our pain with the pain of someone else.
Or maybe it was all just a big mistake.
I don’t know.
By the time I get to the bathroom, the painkillers have kicked in and the pounding in my head has dulled to a low ache. I pull off my clothes and throw them in the laundry basket as I step into a hot shower, spending far longer than I should under the water.
Eventually the remnants of last night’s drinking and this morning’s hangover have gone and all I’m left with is an emptiness in my stomach that might be hunger, might be something else.
I pull on some track pants and a t-shirt before wandering to the kitchen in search of some food. Oscar meows loudly, winding his way around my legs to let me know he needs some too.
“Hey buddy,” I say, bending down to pat him. He offers up a purr, before walking towards his bowl to tell me it’s really food he’s after, not my affection. I shake my head at him even as I realise how stupid it is that I’m having some sort of imaginary conversation with a cat.
I spoon food into his bowl, my stomach retching a little at the smell. Then I turn and get some coffee brewing, pull out some left over Chinese from the fridge that I nuke in the microwave.
When my food and coffee is ready, I head into the living room, Oscar trailing behind me. We both park it on the couch, the cat snuggling up beside me as I lean over and switch on the TV. The screen fills with the inside of a hospital and I suddenly freeze, wondering what the fuck.
I glance at the cat, as though he will provide all the answers, but he’s already asleep. Taking a sip of coffee, I sit back; watch as the show continues, a bunch of over-acting doctors all running towards some doors as a trolley is wheeled inside.
It’s then that I realise I’m watching a TV show, fiction. I flick on the guide and realise it’s Grey’s Anatomy and despite having never watched this show in my life, I don’t change the channel.
Instead, I slide down on the couch to eat my leftovers and watch it, all the time trying to imagine Emma in this role.
Knowing I’m a fucking idiot for even letting myself do that.
But as I watch this ridiculous show, it gives me an idea, and as stupid as it might be, it somehow takes root, eventually growing into a full blown plan that will either leave me looking like a total idiot or somehow lead me back to her.
At this stage, I’ve got nothing to lose, nothing except the thing I find myself already missing, despite the fact I barely even know her.
“Fuck it,” I say, pushing off the couch and grabbing my phone.