Golden [h.s.]

64. gala

🎵Art Deco — Lana Del Rey

My head is pounding, but all I can hear is the harsh ring of my cellphone. I groan, reaching over to where it's laid on the nightstand.

"Hello?" I mumble. My voice sounds horrible. I'm in dire need of some water; my throat is drier than a desert.

"Ella!" Lydia shrieks over the phone. I wince. Too loud. "I've been trying to call you for hours, are you okay?"

I open my eyes, quickly removing the phone from my ear then back again to look at the time. It's two in the afternoon.

"Fine, just hungover," I grumble with a small smile, throwing my legs over the bed as I get up to go to the bathroom. My smile vanishes as I remember last night's events; it all comes flooding back into my head — dancing at Hydrate, seeing Harry there, going to the penthouse, dancing on the counter, Harry tending to my knee...

"Did he take you home?" Lydia presses over the phone, interrupting my stream of thoughts. I'm livid with myself — all this self-control that I've worked so hard on, only for it to crumble as soon as I see him. My stomach begins to churn as I remember Harry staying with me in my bed.

"Lyds, let me call you back? I'm feeling nauseous," I say quickly before hanging up. I lunge over to the toilet, unleashing the contents of my stomach just in time. I let him stay in my bed. My bed.

Granted, we didn't have sex — but somehow, him staying in my bed for however long it was, with his hands on my skin, that feels far more intimate than sex. And the idea of that unsettles me.

I vow to never drink to that point again and I vow to never allow myself to get that drunk that I let my guard down.

I stand back up, flushing the toilet and head over to the sink. As I brush my teeth, I let my thoughts settle in my mind.

I'm just trying to be a better man, he said. I nearly snort some toothpaste up my nose. How ridiculous! All of a sudden, now when he's lost me, he wants to be a better man?

I knew parts of him were genuine last night, I could just tell by looking in his eyes. But then again, how certain am I of his sincerity? He's done the unspeakable to me in the past. I spit the toothpaste out, rinsing my mouth again. I stare at my reflection in the mirror as I continue to think.

This is exactly what I didn't want; I've gone three months without letting the thought of him flood my mind. Of course, I've thought of him here and there, but this constant wondering and confusion only makes me feel crazy. I've worked too hard to protect my energy, especially from him, and it seems just from the sight of him, I easily lose my sanity.

I tried reaching out to you, another thing he said last night. Again, I still don't know what to make of that. I don't know what his intentions were with last night.

No, I know exactly what his intentions were — he always does this, after all, I do know him better than anyone else. He crawls back when things are convenient for him. He took my love for granted, and now when he fucked up, he realizes? He is the reason that we're here where we are now.

Out of curiosity, I exit the bathroom and walk over to the top left drawer of my dresser. I fish through the clothes until my fingers wrap around it. My old cellphone. I pull out, sliding my finger to the power button.

I left voicemails, he said. I purse my lips as the phone turns on, and an influx of calls and messages flood the screen. I swallow hard; I see glimpses of messages from Harry, but I ignore them as I press the button that leads to my voicemails. With a shaky hand, I hold the phone up to my ear.