Page 50 of We Drank the Dawn

I frowned, trying with all my might to remember my reasons.

Sarah. Open mic.

I didn’t want to sit close to her. I had the worst hangover of my life all because I didn’t want to hold my wife’s hand? If that wasn’t a textbook example of pathetic, I didn’t know what was. I’d picked up the first drink to escape reality and, to no one’s surprise, reality came calling anyway. This time banging at the door instead of politely knocking.

I squinted into the darkness as fibers of the night before wriggled deep in my consciousness. But gaps stood in my memory. I hoped I didn’t do anything stupid—besides drinking a ridiculous amount.

Ever so slowly, I rose up on the bed, hissing through my teeth as my sore abs triggered flashes of memory—me ending the night getting intimately acquainted with the fifth wheel’s commode. I grimaced in disgust. Did I shower? I should shower again, just in case.

On wobbly legs I staggered to the bathroom and took a long hot shower that made me want to take another nap. Knees buckling, I sank to the floor, just letting the water scald my skin for a while. On my way back to the bedroom, I tripped over clothes strewn over the floor and caught myself with an elbow braced against the plasterboard.

Locating my sweats, I pulled them on and tried to find a t-shirt.

That was when Sarah arrived.

I recognized her delicate steps on the metal stairs and braced myself.

A rush of warm air entered through the open door of the fifth wheel and the scent of sunshine and grass clung to her body. A low ache hollowed out my torso. My words at the bar last night had hurt her. I knew they did.

Parts of the evening were hazy, but everything I said to her at the open mic? That wasn’t.

I remembered—and meant—every word.

A new nausea cropped up my throat as she set something on the counter. Sounded like a jar of some sort. Then a twist-seal broke, a snap-snap filling the quiet. “Looks like you’re finally upright.” She stepped closer, pressing a cool bottle into my hands.

Gatorade.

Thankful, I twisted the cap off and took a long swig, a cold rivulet escaping down my neck in my haste. I swiped a hand over my mouth and lumbered over to the couch, dropping down to catch my breath. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this bad.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

She was motionless—so still for so long I wondered if she’d somehow left the room without my noticing. I pulled myself out of my slumped position and cocked my head to hear better. “Sarah?”

“Yes?”

“Oh.” I sat back again. “I just didn’t know if you were still in here.” I fought the slur in my voice.

“I’m here.” Her voice was flat, emotionless. “You look…awful.”

“I feel awful.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.” She scoffed, not one iota of pity softening the sound. “Do you have anything you need to say to me?”

The room fell eerily still as I scrambled to understand what she meant. I blinked a few times, opening my mouth before I’d found the answer. “Uh…I’m sorry?”

She scoffed. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I had no business getting drunk like that. I can’t even remember how I got back to the ranch.” I infused my apology with more confidence. “I really am sorry.”

“That’s it?” Her words came like a blade.

Blood pumped hot in my veins as concern surged through me. “I think so?”

When silence once again fell between us, I lifted a hand to scratch my head. “Are you doubting the conversation we had last night? I wasn’t intoxicated when I said what I said. I meant it.”

“Oh, trust me. I know. I’ve put two and two together.”

My brow furrowed with confusion. “Two and two? What are you talking about?”