Page 11 of A Kiss on a Dare
It’s my phone ringing that finally jerks me out of sleep. I squint against the winter sunlight spilling through the window, stabbing directly into my skull. My head pounds, my temples throb, and I grope blindly through the tangle of blankets, searching for the source of the noise.
When I finally find my phone, it takes a full ten seconds of fumbling and blinking to make sense of what’s happening. Cat’s name flashes on the screen. I groan and answer, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Yeah?” I rasp, my voice hoarse from sleep.
“Oh, good, you’re finally up,” Cat says, her voice far too chipper for someone who drank god knows how many questionable shots last night. That’s definitely not the voice of someone recovering from a night of heavy drinking. “Merry Christmas.”
“What time is it?” I frown, sitting upright and immediately regretting it as a fresh wave of nausea rolls over me.
“It’s one,” she replies, and I catch the faint sound of something sizzling in the background. Of course, she’s cooking—probably her favorite hangover breakfast: avocado toast with four slices of fried bacon. “What happened last night? I totally blacked out after you and Dr. Gaybrows came over. How did I get home? And where are my things?”
The moment the questions hit, there’s no avoiding it. The memories crash over me like a tidal wave. The drunken makeout session with Gabrielle in my apartment building floods back in vivid detail—his hands, his mouth, the way I practically climbed him like a tree. Oh God. My stomach churns, and for a moment, I’m genuinely afraid I’m going to be sick.
“Are you there?” Cat’s voice pulls me back, sharp with curiosity, and I realize I’ve been silent for way too long.
“Give me a moment,” I mutter, closing my eyes. My head is spinning, the hangover combining with mortification into a nauseating swirl of regret and dizziness.
“Are youthathungover?” Cat asks, genuine concern breaking through her voice.
“Yeah,” I mumble, wishing the pounding headache would ease up even slightly.
“You should take an ibuprofen,” Cat suggests, but the thought of swallowing anything right now is enough to make my stomach turn. I know I’d just throw it right back up.
“I can’t,” I mutter, breathing heavily through the nausea.
“You’re on call today, right?” Cat asks, and I hum in response, unable to muster actual words. “Okay, then. I’ll come over with hangover breakfast, and you’ll be good as new.”
I don’t even have the energy to protest or ask how she plans to get here without her coat before she hangs up. For the next fifteen minutes, I just lie there on my sofa, trying not to think about Gabrielle—or anything else, really. I focus on the colorful spots dancing behind my closed eyelids, willing the room to stop spinning.
I don’t move until I hear keys jingling in the lock and the sound of my door opening. Cat already has a spare key to my new apartment, and I’m thankful she does. I don’t think I could have dragged myself to the door if I tried.
I hear her bustling around in the hallway, kicking off her shoes and making her way into the living room—completely empty except for the sofa I’m currently sprawled on like a tragic medieval heroine dying of tuberculosis.
“Oh, baby,” Cat says, her voice dripping with concern when she sees me. “You look horrible.”
“I know,” I mumble, squinting at her with one eye open. The room is far too bright for both eyes to deal with.
“I brought you breakfast,” she announces, jingling a paper bag in front of my face. The smell of food wafts toward me—bacon and avocado—and nausea immediately rises to my throat.
“I can’t,” I croak, shaking my head weakly. But Cat never takes no for an answer when it comes to her legendary hangover cures.
She crouches in front of the sofa, pulling a Tupperware container out of the bag and popping off the lid. She’s even brought a fork, and before I can object, she’s already scooping up a piece of bacon and avocado and aiming it at my mouth.
I consider resisting for half a second, but I don’t have the strength, so I let my mouth fall open and take the food in. I chew reluctantly, praying I won’t get sick. To my surprise, the moment the food hits my stomach, the nausea ebbs just a little. Within half a minute, I feel…not great, but noticeably less like death. God, I can’t believe this actually works.
For the next ten minutes, I eat the breakfast bit by bit, each bite making me feel marginally better. Meanwhile, Cat moves around the apartment, rummaging through boxes in search of ibuprofen and a glass. Most of my stuff is still packed, so it takes her a while, but she eventually finds both. She pours me some water and hands me the pill, her face a picture of determination.
I swallow it gratefully, leaning back against the sofa cushions as I let out a deep sigh. “You’re the best,” I mutter, meaning every word.
Cat grins and plops down on the arm of the sofa, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I know. Oh, and on that note—” She digs into her bag and pulls out a can of Coke Zero Decaf—the one she knows I love so much I never start a day without it—and hands it to me.
“I love you,” I mutter, taking the cold can and pressing it against my temple. The chill feels like pure salvation.
“Now tell me what happened last night,” Cat says, still perching on the arm of the sofa. There’s a hint of impatience in her voice, the kind that tells me she already knows something happened. Cat has a sixth sense for sniffing out my secrets.
So I tell her, skipping any preamble. “I kissed Gabrielle.”
Her jaw drops so fast it’s like a coin slot in a piggy bank. “You did what?!”
