Page 19 of Not Falling for the Forward
I groan as I peel my eyes open. Blinding light burns as shapes start to form in a blur.Where am I?I rub a hand over my eyes, clearing the last of my vision. My fingers come away smeared in the make-up I failed to take off before I passed out wherever I am.
I recognise that carpet. I have absolutely seen that carpet before. I picked that carpet. That’s my living room carpet.
Okay. I’m home. That’s a good start.
Pain spears through my temples as I lift my head and try to look around to get my bearings. Overwhelming dizziness takes over and I place my head back where it was. I appear to be face down on my sofa. I am facing half an upside-down pizza, still in its box on the floor next to me.
What even happened last night?
I take a deep breath to try and clear some of my thoughts, the smell of grease and cold cheese makes my stomach roll. I sit up abruptly, just in case I'm sick, which makes my head spin and another, larger spike of pain spear through my skull. I can’t help the groan that leaves my mouth as my head spins and pulses in a slow beat.
Deep breaths. In through the nose out through the mouth.Move your head away from the pizza grease smell.
We do not vomit from wine anymore. I am a fully grown adult. I have my own home and a big girl job. I am not nineteen anymore.Do. Not. Vomit.I silently chant to myself.
Once the immediate barfing danger is gone, I search for my phone. It’s upside down on top of a pizza slice. I wipe the grease off the screen on to the carpet without thinking, then cringe at the stain it leaves behind. Now I need to clean my carpet.Super.
My phone screen light almost blinds me. Nine a.m.Eugh. I’m sure we only got home around at around four. Five hours sleep in a bed, fully hydrated and I’d be groggy all day. But five hours passed out, upside down on a sofa? No wonder I feel like a shrivelled-up piece of shit.
I don’t deserve this.
I’m a good person.
Once the nausea has mostly passed, I roll off the sofa and notice that I am still in my dress and I have managed to remove only one shoe. Oh yep, there’s the blisters I knew I would be getting, one on my pinkie toe, the other on my heel. I know without removing my other shoe that they are mirrored on my left foot. I hobble my way to the kitchen, one heeled foot, one bare one; the motion of up down from my heel making me nauseous again.
My search for painkillers and water is abruptly interrupted by a partially naked man that I do not know, helping himself to my coffee.
Oh fuck. I didn't, did I?
I can’t feel any of the telltale signs of having had sex and wouldn’t we have at least gone upstairs? A quick run of my hands down my hips tells me my underwear is still on so, that’s a good sign, right?
“Erm. Hi?” I test my voice. It’s strained, like I have been shouting all night. Hopefully not this guy’s name that I can't for the life of me remember.
“Morning,” Random Dude turns around and gives me a sleepy smile. “I hope you don’t mind me making a coffee before I leave. Jess isn’t awake yet to have asked if you’d be cool with it, and well, I tried to ask you, but you were way out of it.” He shrugs.
Jess, right. My shoulders sag as relief rushes through me. Our plan was for her to stay at mine. Clearly, her night turned out much more fruitful than mine. Get it girl.
“No, no, help yourself.” I noncommittally wave him towards where he has been routing in my cupboards. I'm too hungover to care. I need this man to take his coffee and move out of my way so I can get an aspirin.
I hobble over to the sink and fill a glass, not bothering to check if it’s clean. I chug it, then repeat the process. As I’m quenching my thirst, I chance another look at Jess’ conquest. Tall, not as tall as Jack, but not bad. Dark hair and eyes. Built, with too many muscles, no way this guy could run around for ninety plus minutes twice a week like Jack does. Still very good looking but, I hate to say it, not my type.
Wait. Since when do I compare guys to Jack Cartwright? When did Jack Cartwright become my type? I don’t even have a type, do I? I don’t, and if I did, it would not be a ladies’ man with a taste for anything with a pulse and a fake persona he can slip in and out of at the flicker of a smile. It absolutely wouldn’t be a famous footballer with eyes that glitter like the sea when the sun hits them. It definitely is not a man who smells so good it makes me want to take a bite.
Fuck. Jack.
A memory of him flashes through my head.
He was there last night.
Not only was he there, but I spoke to him. I touched him. A flush of heat radiates up my spine as I remember the feel of his body against mine. What had he said to me? More importantly, what did I say to him? I rub hands over my face trying to recall our conversation.
The guy in my kitchen clears his throat making me jump, I forgot he was even there. “I’ll take my coffee upstairs and let Jess know I’m on my way out.” I smile at him with little enthusiasm as he leaves the kitchen.
I should probably shower. I imagine I look and smell like shit. I chance a sniff of one of my armpits and immediately wish I didn't. I knew I would stink, I did not need to confirm. We were dancing for hours last night. I must have sweat more last night than I do in a week’s worth of gym workouts. Not risking looking at myself in the mirror in the hallway—no need to upset myself further—I make my way upstairs to sort myself out.
Twenty minutes later my head feels slightly better, I look passable as a human again and I smell exceptionally better thanks to some of the many fancy products my mum always buys me at Christmas. I don’t know why people think ‘smellies’ are rubbish gifts, I’m stocked up now until at least April.
I’m just wrapping my hair in a towel when I hear a knock at the door. Who on earth would be here at this time on a Sunday morning?
