Page 38 of Awaiting the Storm
I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. That he’d stay? That he’d climb into bed beside me in my Daddy’s home, with my grandparents sleeping down the hall, and—
No.
I shake the thought from my mind and reach for my shampoo. This isn’t me. I don’t kiss random men. I don’t throw myself at strangers just because they smell good and are good-looking and are gentle when I’m too drunk to walk.
And he was gentle. He took care of me. Wrapped me up in his flannel. Carried me like I weighed nothing. Held me like I was precious cargo.
I dry off and pull on a pair of jeans and an old gray T-shirt. My hair is still damp, but I don’t have the energy to do anything else with it. I pad barefoot down the stairs, one hand braced on the railing, the other gripping the wall to keep myself from tumbling headfirst down to the main floor.
The smell of bacon hits me halfway down the stairs, and my stomach growls despite the queasiness.
I step into the kitchen and find Grandma Evelyn sitting at the table, her hair pinned in a neat bun, with a cup of coffee in hand, legs crossed at the ankles, newspaper sprawled in front of her.
“Good morning,” she says without looking up from the paper, her voice chipper.
“Not really,” I croak, stumbling toward the coffee maker.
“I was about to come check you for a pulse. The girls said you got in pretty late.”
“We didn’t wake you and Grandpa, did we?” I ask.
“Oh, no. We sleep like the dead,” she replies.
“Well, I feel like the dead,” I say as I open the cupboard and grab a ceramic mug.
I pour myself a massive cup of black coffee and sink into the chair across from her, tucking my legs underneath me. My hands shake slightly as I lift the mug to my lips and take a sip. The dark liquid helps to bring my bones to life.
“You do look like death warmed over,” she adds, giving me a once-over.
“Feel worse than that. If that’s even possible.”
She sets the paper down and leans forward, peering at me over the rim of her reading glasses. “So, how was your night? Better than your morning, I hope.”
I groan and drop my head to the table with a thud. “Can we not?”
“Oh, honey.” Her voice softens, laced with amusement and a hint of concern. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”
“Not bad,” I mumble into the wood. “Just … it’s all a little fuzzy. And I hate that feeling.”
She hums and squeezes my hand. “I’ve kept your breakfast warm. Food makes everything better.”
She stands and walks to the stove, opening it and pulling out a plate covered in foil. The smell of eggs and bacon fills the kitchen, and despite the turmoil roiling in my belly, I feel a swell of appreciation for the woman who somehow always knows what I need.
“So, tell me everything,” she chimes. “Did youenjoy the band?”
I groan again.
“Come on. I’m an old woman. I have to live vicariously through you girls.”
“From what I can remember, yes. They put on a good show, and my achy legs tell me we danced a lot.”
“And I’m assuming you drank a lot too. Tequila?” she asks, her knowing eyes landing on mine as she walks back to the table.
I frown.
“That’s a yes,” she says, chuckling as she sets the plate in front of me and sits back down. “You girls never learn.”
I force myself to sit up and pick at the food. It’s delicious, but it’s a fight to keep every bite down.
