Page 40 of We Could Be So Good
“I don’t give a shit about that,” Nick says. And he really doesn’t. That was annoying and kind of rude, but it’s nothing compared to what came later. “Also, I’m sorry, too. I know you meant to be kind and I’m sorry that I overreacted.”
As the words leave his mouth, Nick realizes that this is the first time in ages that he’s apologized to anyone—not because he minds apologizing, but because in order to apologize, you have to be close enough to someone that you want their forgiveness.
“Thanks.” Andy yawns.
“Let’s go to sleep.”
“Are we okay?”
“Yeah.” Andy looks far too relieved. Did he really think that Nick would stay mad at him? “Hey, Andy? We’re always going to be okay. At least on my end. Understand?” He reaches out an arm, meaning to clasp Andy’s shoulder, but Andy ducks under it, and the next thing he knows he has an armful of sleep-warm Andy, his hair sticking up in tufts that tickle Nick’s nose. Nick pats his back, takes a stupid minute to breathe in the scent of him.
“Thanks,” Andy says again, his words muffled by Nick’s coat.
“Shut up. You don’t have anything to thank me for. Time for sleep,” he says, and reluctantly lets go.
***
Nick is constitutionally incapable of sleeping past seven in the morning. He has some kind of godforsaken alarm clock in his brain that shakes him awake at about half past six every goddamn day, including weekends, including holidays, including days he’s profoundly and regrettably hungover.
He levers himself out of bed, promptly stubs his toe on his dresser, and, swearing under his breath, gets some aspirin fromthe medicine cabinet. He swallows it down with a mouthful of water that makes his insides rebel.
Andy, of course, isn’t awake yet. If Nick kept quiet, Andy could probably sleep all day. Even when Andy gets out of bed, he’s still mostly asleep.
Nick dumps some coffee grounds in the top of the coffee press and then, thinking better of it, doubles the amount and puts it on the stove. Skeptically, he eyes the contents of his refrigerator. The idea of food makes his stomach turn, so he shuts the door.
He tries to remember exactly how much he had to drink last night, but it’s a blur after leaving O’Connell’s. Which makes sense, come to think, because there’s no way he would have agreed to go to a gay bar with Andy if he’d been within a stone’s throw of sobriety. He might have thought that the long walk to Emily’s apartment would have burned off some of the alcohol, but evidently not. His head is filled with sawdust and nausea.
When the coffee is ready, he dumps some into a cup with a bit of milk and pours it directly down his throat, which—motherfucker. It’s too hot. Too hot, by about ten thousand degrees. He drops his mug into the sink and it lands with a clatter. He fans his mouth, like an utter fool, as if that will even do anything.
“Shit fuck damn,” he grumbles.
“Wow,” says Andy from behind him.
“Drank boiling coffee,” Nick explains, turning around. The sight of Andy, sleep-rumpled, wearing Nick’s pajamas, his hair sticking up on one side, hits Nick like a sucker punch.
“I did that once,” Andy says mildly. “Not a great experience.”
Nick starts to laugh, because of course Andy’s done that. “Only once?”
“The second time was hot cocoa.”
“That’s a different thing entirely.”
“Exactly.”
Andy grins and stretches. Nick’s eyes are drawn to that sliver of pale skin exposed on his stomach. This happens every morning—Andy stretches and Nick gawks. He feels like a pervert, and even more so after last night’s series of disasters.
“Are you hungry?” Andy asks, looking in the icebox.
“Andy, if you even talk about food, I’m calling the police.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. I visited Emily and I think she gave me the equivalent of a fifth of gin, dressed up with just enough tonic that I didn’t know how dire things were.”
“Emily?” Andy’s back is to him, so Nick can’t read his expression.
“I needed someone to screw my head on straight.” Nick decides not to mention that he walked all the way there. “Do you mind that I saw her? Or that I’m mentioning it?”
