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But when I try to recall what happened when we got upstairs, it’s just…
Blank.
A black hole of nothing.
Surely, I passed out.
And as if summoned, another memory pops up, but this one of the scene I left this morning.
The garbage can next to the couch. I didn’t register it when I left, but I do now, belatedly.
Frowning, I lift my head, staring at nothing as I try to recall if I threw up last night or not. I don’t…think I did. By the amount I hurled up today… I doubt it.
Shit, is he mad I got so drunk?
Guilt swims through me. He’s sober. A recovering addict. Hell, he’s told me how triggering it can be with Waylon and how out of control he’s been in recent months.
But that’s different, right? They live together. Waylon’s an alcoholic, even if he’s only barely come to terms with it. At least, that was the impression I got.
Another memory sparks—Will watching Waylon from across the room, concerned.
“He’s not ready to admit it… I think he’s struggling more than he’s letting on.”
More flashes of the two of them. The long looks, the teasing smiles from Will, the flush to Waylon’s cheeks before he scowled and walked away…
Flopping onto my back, I stare up at my ceiling.
I didn’t imagine that, did I?
A frown burrows between my eyes.
Waylon’s not…
He can’t be…
No. No fucking way.
I shoot up from the bed so fast, that I’m pretty sure I leave my stomach and my brain on the bed. Wincing, I clutch my head and pace across the room, taking small sips of air.
When my vision rights itself, and the sharp throbbing dissipates once more, I grab my phone and pull up my messages with Mason.
Hey, thanks for letting me crash last night.
My fingers hover over the screen after I hit send.
“He’s a bartender,” I mutter under my breath. “He deals with drunk people all the time.”
Still, I find myself shooting off another message.
Sorry if I was a mess
With a grimace, I watch the screen, waiting for him to open it.
I give it another minute, my heart thumping in time with the throbbing in my temple, before locking it and tossing it on my bed, and heading for the bathroom to shower instead of torturing myself.
He’s probably just busy. Working.
But as quick as that thought comes, I remember it’s Sunday. The bar’s closed.
