Page 50 of The Home Grown
Then there’s a clatter of something hitting the floor, startling me out of my half-dream state, causing my heart to thud so hard in my chest I can hear my pulse in my ears.
My eyelids are stuck shut; a coarse dryness that has me rubbing my eyes to induce tears.
And my mouth is like the literal desert.
Fuck.
The vibrating starts again, across the floor this time, and I roll over, blindly reaching out to where I think the noise is coming from.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I clasp my phone in my hands, brushing the carpeted floor with my fingers in the process.
Wait … carpet? I don’t have carpet in my bedroom.
Where the hell am I?
I blink, trying to clear my vision, trying to decipher my whereabouts.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I glance at the name on the screen.
Johnny.
Fuck.
Johnny’s going tokillme.
I panic and hit decline because he’s going to ask where I am … he’s going to ask me a million questions that I can’t answer.
I survey the room. The bed sheets are white and crisp. There’s a dressing table next to the window with girl shit on—the type of stuff my sisters have. Bottles and sprays and hair bits and—the memory of last night comes flooding back to me like a tidal wave of nightmares.
The flirting. The over-sharing. The kebab I insisted on ordering.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“Oh, crap,” a voice says.
Ellie.
I’m in bed with Ellie.
The echo of her giggling swims to the forefront of my mind.
Giggling. Giggling…
Did we? I peep under the duvet and see that I’m naked, apart from my boxers … and I don’t remember doingthat.
“Fuck,” I say.
Fuck, indeed.
‘…I may as well have one for the road…’
Famous last words and typical of me. Literally no will power. Not only did I drink a third of the Macallen—which was divine, I may add—but the tequila shots and I’m pretty sure I moved over to the small collection of brandy.
The conversation echoes around in my foggy brain.
