36
It's after 4 a.m. when Chelsea and her friends stumble in. They're loud and rowdy after a night of drinking. I roll over and punch my pillow. It's been a sleepless night thanks to Chelsea's constant texts. I knew she wouldn't be happy seeing Tanya in the show, but I didn't expect her to practically ignore me after the show and then go out and find ways to make her point.
The girls clunk around for a few minutes. It finally quiets down until the bedroom door springs open and the light flips on.
"Hey babe!" Chelsea slurs and half launches half falls onto me. I grunt, glad she missed the family jewels.
"We had fun!" She's a hot mess with smeared eye makeup and reeks of booze.
"Yes, I saw that," I say.
"No, I mean really had fun! Wanna get frisky?" she whispers in my face with a blast of ashtray breath.
I gently push her away. "Have you been smoking?"
"I had a cigar!" She boasts, stumbling away. "It's so warm in here."
She fans herself and then stretches behind her back to reach her zipper. She turns in a circle like a cat trying to catch its tail. She sways and bumps into the wall but then is able to get the zipper part way down.
"How about you just climb into bed and go to sleep." I reach to help her.
She slaps my hand away. "I don't want to go to sleep. I want to have sex!" She locks eyes with me in an intoxicated lure and slips out of her dress, her arm catches on the strap and then the dress stops at her hips as she didn't lower the zipper enough.
It would be laughable if I weren't so exhausted and losing my patience. I roll my eyes.
"Don't you like my strip tease?" she pouts.
"Chelsea, you're drunk. I have a matinee tomorrow and need to sleep."
But she ignores me.
"You can sleep when you're dead." She stands barefoot in her black lace pushup bra and bunched up dress, staring at me. "I bet lots of guys at the bar would sleep with me."
I get that she was ticked off about Tanya, and I don't think she'd ever cheat on me, but this is a side to her I don't like. I sit up on the side of the bed and rub my face. "I really don't want to talk about this tonight. Trust me. We'll have loads to talk about tomorrow. Now please just come to bed before you fall and knock yourself out."
"You don't want to have sex because you got it all out of your system with Tanya!" She stomps to her side of the bed and falls onto it with her dress still hanging around her waist.
Clenching my jaw, I don't respond. There's no getting through to her right now. I lie back down and hope she'll pass out soon so I can get some rest.
Finally she stops talking and lays quietly. Thank God. But just when I think she might be asleep, she says, "Tom?"
I tense up and try to make my voice sound patient. "Yeah?"
"I don't feel so good."
Suddenly she claws her way off the bed and lunges toward the door, banging into the dresser on her way. One step into the bathroom and she retches.
Groaning, I climb out of bed, pull on some pajama pants, and check out the damage. My nose wrinkles in disgust at the pink vomit across the white tile and Chelsea gripping the porcelain bowl, her hair draped around it like a curtain.
I throw a towel over the mess, go to her, and lift her hair out of the way as another wave of her wild night hurls its way into the toilet.
She spits and spews, refusing to release her death grip. After a couple more rounds, as she's catching her breath and leaning back against the tub, I wring out a cool washcloth and wipe her face and mouth, but then she retches again.
"I was afraid this would happen," Anna says from the doorway. She flicks on the bathroom fan.
"Dare I ask what she drank?"
Anna rinses out a fresh washcloth, and hands it to me. "Flavored martinis and a couple of shots. She never drinks this much. I'm sorry."
"It's hardly your fault." But somehow I fear it's mine.
"She told me about the run in with her dad," Anna says. "I think this is her way of letting out her frustrations."
But I don't think this has anything to do with her dad
"There's not much Chelsea can't handle, but his abandonment really messed with her."
I glance at my usually beautiful girlfriend huddled between the toilet and tub, pale-faced and shivering. I want to hold her, but she smells vile, can barely hold her head up, and likely isn't finished puking.
Anna kneels next to her. "How about we get you to bed?"
Chelsea groans and presses her face against the cold tile. "I'll stay here."
Anna and I share a smile.
"Then let's get you out of your dress. You look like a strung out hooker," Anna says with a laugh.
Chelsea shakes her head, but lets me wrangle the zipper lower and as she sits up, retches again. When she's finished she sinks bonelessly to the cool floor. "Moving makes it worse. Just leave me."
I've had nights like this, but not for a long time. "I'll get her a blanket." When I return, Anna is on the floor talking softly to Chelsea, teasing her and moving her hair out of her face.
"We'll laugh about this someday. Just like the night we all auditioned for Celebrity Dance Off."
But Chelsea doesn't agree. "Please go away and let me die in peace."
* * *
I didn't die. Instead I wake up to a sledgehammer pounding on my brain and what feels like moss growing in my dry mouth. My head is resting on a toilet paper roll and a blanket covers me.
"Morning, Sunshine!" Anna says brightly.
"Promise me you're never having another bachelorette party."
"Nope. Just this one." She pours a glass of water and hands me two ibuprofen, and then I remember Tom and some of the horrible things I said. I cringe, which hurts my head.
"How mad is he?"
She cracks a smile. "I think he's fine."
"I need to talk to him." I strain to stand. My head swirls, so I sit on the toilet.
"Why don't you finish your water and take a shower first?"
"I need to apologize."
"Honey, it might be best to wash the vomit out of your hair first."
I touch my hair. Sure enough there are clumps of hurl cemented in it. Evidence is also dried on my arm, and my dress is wadded around my waist. I hide my head in shame. "Oh God, he must hate me."
"Hardly, despite your efforts to change his mind, the chap seems quite smitten," she says in a British accent and chuckles.
But he must be horrified by my behavior. I am. After a hot shower and another cool glass of water, I ease into the kitchen. Pastries are laid out on the kitchen table. Tom's making scrambled eggs, pancakes and bacon, and Bloody Marys to chase the hair of the dog.
He glances up. "You're looking better."
I spot his phone on the counter and remember sending him pictures of me flirting with other men. My heart sinks, and not only does my whole body ache from a raging hangover, but how could I have been so childish?
"I'm so sorry," I say softly. He gives me a tight smile and returns to cooking breakfast for my friends.
A half hour later Tom has his backpack and is putting on his coat. "It's been a pleasure meeting all of you," he says.
Normally he doesn't leave for the theatre for another hour. I'm afraid to ask why he's going so early, because likely he just wants to get away from me, but Megan saves the day by asking, "You have to go in this early for your show?"
"Not usually, but the understudy I worked with yesterday is out with the flu. The second understudy has never actually performed the part live before. I'm going in early to run scenes with her." He glances at me and I'm not sure if it's to see how I'm digesting that information or to throw it in my face. I'm too miserable to care.
"Have a good show," I eek out.
The girls all pop up to say their goodbyes with quick hugs. And Tom leaves to go to work and make out with a new girl.
My friends have headed to the airport. Saying goodbye brought tears to my eyes. I still feel like death warmed over despite a nap and eating nothing more than toast and saltines. I've sipped water to rehydrate and scrubbed the bathroom floor and toilet. I'd like to sleep away my crushing hangover, but I need to do something to show Tom how sorry I am.
My laptop is open with several recipes that are completely foreign to me. I stopped down to the market around the corner for the ingredients, and now I'm a gooey mess wrapping raw sausage around a peeled hardboiled egg.
When I've got it cobbled together, I drop it into a fry pan and watch it spit and sizzle in the hot oil. As I work on the next one, I replay my actions of last night and desperately wish there was a way to travel back in time and erase everything I said and did. Can he even stand the sight of me after that?
I plop another globby egg into the oil, turn the first one with a fork, and fish out two others that are brown. They look nothing like the picture of perfect crispy ovals. Mine are huge lumps that look more like hunks of coal.
"What are you doing?"
Startled, I jump, bumping into Tom. "Oh my God, I didn't hear you come in."
He peers at the mess I've created. "Are those..."
"They're supposed to be Scotch eggs."
He tilts his head skeptically and examines my poor execution. He cracks a smile. "Why?"
He looks so handsome next to me, a sloppy hung over mess. "I thought this might help make up for last night. I know you miss home, and you mentioned Scotch eggs one time." I look at the disastrous results of all my work. "But I can't seem to get anything right lately."
And without intending to, I burst into tears.
Surprised at my sudden meltdown, he pulls me into his arms. "Hey, love, don't cry."
"I'm so sorry. I've made a mess of everything."
"The kitchen, yes, but what else?"
"Stop being so nice. I was horrible, and you must hate me."
He looks into my eyes. "I could never hate you. I might have been a bit mad, but after seeing all the trouble you've gone through here, I'd say it's mostly passed.
"I really am sorry. I have no excuse for the way I acted." The frying pan starts to smoke. "Shit." I quick move the pan off the burner and take out the last two eggs before they go up in flames.
Tom turns off the stove, then leans against the counter to face me. "You were saying."
I gaze at him. He deserves the truth. "You always have girls at the stage door hoping for a picture and a hug. After those French girls you were so nice to ended up being my dad's other family..." In reality they are my half sisters, but I'm not ready to face that fact yet. "...I'm just having trouble with it."
He nods, so I continue. "And then watching you with Tanya pushed me over the edge. I have no choice but to stand by and just take it, to pretend I don't care. But sometimes it really hurts."
"You know I can't change that," he says gently.
"I do, but if I were to kiss another guy it would be cheating." There's turmoil on his face, but I'm being honest.
"Is that what you want?"
"Of course not." I look away, not wanting to meet his eyes. "But last night felt like a betrayal in front of my friends."
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "There is no answer I can offer that will change the reality of my job, my life."
"I know. It's my issue, not yours, and it'll be fine." I offer a weak smile. "But it's not fair for me to take it out on you. I should be better than that. Can you possibly forgive me?"
He gives me that look of his that overflows my heart with love. "Already done. Now let's see how these Scotch eggs of yours taste." He reaches for a misshapen egg.
"Maybe you better not."
He arches a skeptical brow and takes a bite and chews, and then chokes.
I watch in horror.
He easily swallows. "Kidding. It's delicious. Come here." He pulls me in and kisses me.
He tastes of sausage, which actually is pretty good, and my world brightens. We're going to be okay.