Grabbing the wadded up bills, I drop them into the tip jar and walk out, flashing a smile over my shoulder. Bill is nice; it is too bad his landlord is such a dick head.
The walk home is the longest walk I have ever taken. I’m more than fine if it takes me the rest of the morning to get home. But, even with dragging my feet, a short fifteen minutes later, here I am, staring at the front door of my building.
I really do love this place, the ivy has begun to climb across the brick, and I am so thrilled I convinced Colin not to cut it back. The window boxes are overflowing with the springtime flowers I recently planted. As I fiddle with the keys, small rays of sunshine filter through the leaves of the big oak tree that is bursting from the seams of the green space on the sidewalk.
This place is home—one of the few places in my life that I feel like nobody can take away from me. Now that Christian and I live together, we can never undo the choice. He owns the building, so if anyone is going to move out, it is going to be me.
I shake my head, trying to force the idea out of my mind. There is no way it is going to come to that, I remind myself. Even if I left for a few days, Christian will realize how miserable he is without me, and I will be back—back in his arms. And not the arms of the guy passed out in the guest room. I’ll be back with my Christian, the one I fell in love with as a teen.
I climb the stairs and enter the apartment. Looking around, I quickly realize Christian still isn’t awake. I huff and push the wild strands of hair out of my face. I’ve waited long enough. This needs to happen.
Stepping into the guest room, I clear my throat, loudly. Christian lay in the exact same position as the night before, clearly undisturbed by my presence. Angrily, I rush over to his oversized, beefy body and give him multiple shoves. “Wake up. You need to wake up, now!”
“Huh,” he says with a snort, wiping the drool gathering on his cheek with the back of his hand. “What’s going on?”
He seems startled. He lifts his eyes, and squinting, tries to block out the light more with his hand.
“We need to talk,” I say coolly.
I watch as he rolls his eyes and flops back down onto the bed, clearly disgusted I woke him. “Can’t this wait?” he moans.
“It has waited, all morning,” I reply firmly.
“Paige, I’m serious, I feel like shit.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Jesus! I said not right now.”
“Don’t you dare raise your voice to me,” I command, completely in shock that he would have the nerve to talk to me that way after putting me through hell last night. “For all I knew you were dead last night.”
“I left my phone in Pete’s car,” Christian defends himself, not bothering to lift his head.
The answer does not appease me, only further infuriating me. “Pete Hannigan? The loser you said you were never going to see again, because all he does is hang out with a bunch of roadie losers at Kings and get drunk all the time? That Pete?”
“Yeah, that Pete!” Christian shouts, suddenly sitting up and glaring at me. I watch as he clutches his head, the sudden adjustment to his body and light obviously causing an intense pain. I’m not too ashamed to admit, I kind of feel he has it coming.
“What’s going on with you?” I beg, fighting the urge to rush up and start shaking him wildly.
“Nothing,” he grunts, standing and pushing past me to make his way into the bathroom. I walk into the living room, taking a seat on the chair that faces the door. He will have to look at me when he comes out. He will have to give me the answers I deserve.
I hear the flush, then a few seconds later he emerges from the doorway. He doesn’t look at me, though. He makes his way to the kitchen sink and sticks his head under the faucet. After a good soaking, he lifts up, and while dripping water all over the floor, proceeds to question, “Where are the migraine pills?”
“Basket on the top of the fridge,” I answer. I don’t even know why. I have all this anger and fight inside of me, but all of the sudden I feel incredibly overwhelmed with sadness. He really doesn’t care if I am upset. Perhaps I’ve been fooling myself about who he really is. As a girl I would watch my mom date these slime balls who would use her up until they were done and then throw her away. My stomach sinks as the idea I am exactly the same as her hits me.
“It’s like a fucking jackhammer in my skull,” he moans as he fidgets with the childproof cap, growing angrier.
I can’t explain exactly what clicks for me in that moment. I stand and glide into the kitchen casually, grabbing the bottle from his hands, and pop the lid off with ease. I deal out a dose, replace the lid, and turn to pick up my bags.