Memories That Still Haunt Us

Chapter Five:

I'm a mess when I stumble into the guest house. Hair fallen completely out of my claw clip, tumbling down my back in a heap of messy curls. My makeup feels smeared. I'm about to die of thirst and starvation.

Tossing my car keys onto the couch, which I'm sure I'll forget about tomorrow and spend an hour trying to find, I wander into the kitchen, then realize I have zero food or water.

Fuck me.

My stomach grumbles. Yelling at me to fill it.

I haven't eaten since breakfast this morning.

My eyes look over at the house across the lawn. I can sneak in, grab a bite to eat, go back without anyone ever finding out.

Great plan.

I don't know why I continue to let myself get this drunk. It's fun at the beginning of the night, but once I get back home and I'm alone in my room, all the bad memories line up and wrap me up in this blanket of misery and sorrow. I become so depressed that it's hard for me to get out of bed the next day. Alcohol only deepens my depression, and yet I continue to drink myself senseless.

"You scare me sometimes." Lake used to tell me when I'd come home from being out late drinking and spend the next few hours moping and sulking. Wallowing in my depression.

I scare myself too.

Moving across the lawn, I hate the feeling of the wet grass on my ankles and feet. It immediately makes me feel itchy. Who waters their grass at night? Rich people I guess.

I feel like I'm getting eaten alive by bugs, and I quicken my pace until I reach the pavers around the pool. Moving towards the back French doors, I use the key to unlock the back, then step inside. It's pitch black. No noise in the house. No lights on. Everyone's asleep. It's nearly two a.m.

For some reason, despite the house being dead asleep, I tiptoe towards the fridge like a burglar and pull open the doors. Scanning the items, I see nothing but healthy food. Which, is fine. I'm a somewhat healthy eater. Not when I'm completely wasted though. Right now, all I want is grease and junk.

I find a jar of pickles, something that wouldn't normally appeal to me but for some reason is calling my name. Grabbing the jar, I fight to pop the top off. I place it between my legs and tug with all my might. It won't budge.

"What are you doing?"

Ellis's voice causes me to shriek, and the jar of pickles falls to the floor, shattering into a million pieces, spilling pickles and juice everywhere.

He flips on the lights, blinding me as I squint at him.

My jaw nearly falls to the floor. He's shirtless. Muscles and all are screaming back at me. I can't seem to close my mouth as my eyes have a mind of their own, scanning over his perfect muscular chest and toned six-pack. The perfect arms and tanned skin. The way his gray sweatpants rest on his hips. Am I dreaming? Did I actually pass out in the guest house?

"Fucking hell." Ellis grumbles and grabs a broom from the nearby closet. The way he says fuck sounds more like fook. Fooking hell. It sends a shiver down my spine. His hair is a mess of curls from sleep. I want to run my fingers through them. "The bloody hell are you doing? Beck's asleep. It's two in the morning." He hisses at me and comes around the counter towards the mess on the floor.

A piece of glass must've cut my leg, as blood drips down onto the floor. "Sorry," I say.

"You're pissed." He scoffs.

"Pissed at what?"

He looks at me like I'm a complete moron. "You're drunk."

"I'm not!" I say too loudly, and he narrows his eyes angrily. "I'm not drunk." I whisper. "I went out with a friend. We had a few drinks."

"I don't care."

"I'm not an alcoholic." I blurt out, desperation oozing out of me as I hope he doesn't fire me after this.

"Okay."

"I only had a few drinks." I say and sidestep away from the glass, nearly slipping on the juice.

"You're not really convincing me."

I groan and grab myself a paper towel, placing it on the cut on my leg. "I'll clean up the mess. I was hungry." I go to take the broom from him, but he shakes his head and begins sweeping up the mess.

I grab some rags and begin to soak up the mess. I'm mortified. What was I thinking coming in here? He's going to fire me. I know it. Why would he keep me around? He shouldn't. I'm a fucking disaster.

We quietly work at cleaning up the mess. My heart is thudding in my chest. The blood seeps through the first paper towel, and I hurriedly replace it with another one.

Ellis dumps the glass into the trash then leaves the room, returning a moment later with a few Band-Aids. "Here." He says dully and places them on the counter.

"Thanks." I mumble and peel one open, sticking it on the wound. The cut is smaller than the amount of blood makes it out to be. I place the soaked rags in the sink, then run a hand through my hair. "I'm genuinely really sorry."

He's quiet as he pulls open the fridge. "What do you want to eat?" He asks, and my eyes widen.

"I can make it. Actually, I don't even need anything. I'll just go to bed."

"What do you want?" He exhales. His voice clipped.

"Do you have stuff for a grilled cheese?"

He gives me a look, then nods. I take a seat on the bar stool as he grabs the ingredients and turns on the stove.

"Are you going to tell Mrs. Bythesea about this?" I ask nervously.

"No." He says, and my body relaxes slightly. He places the bread on the pan. "This can't happen again though."

"Of course." I respond rapidly. Does this mean I'm not fired? At least not yet. I nibble on my bottom lip. Run my fingers through my messy hair. He's quiet, and I'm quiet. The house is even more quiet. The pan sizzles, and he flips the bread. "Where are you from?" I attempt to converse with him.

"England."

"I guessed that much. What part though?"

"Birmingham."

"I've always wanted to go there."

He looks over his shoulder at me, eyebrows arched. "Why would you ever want to go there?"

"I don't know, the show, I guess. Peaky Blinders."

He scoffs. "There's nothing worth seeing in Birmingham."

"Oh." I run my tongue along my teeth. "When did you move here?"

He shuts off the stove and slides over my grilled cheese. His jaw clenched. "I'm going back to bed. Lock up when you leave and don't break anything else."

"Right. I can do that."

Giving me an icy stare, he turns to leave. "Thanks, for the food." I say. He doesn't respond and continues out of the kitchen. I hear his feet pad up the stairs. I exhale heavily. I fucked that up so badly. I'm lucky if he doesn't tell Mrs. Bythesea about this. There's no way she'd be as patient and understanding as he was. I can only imagine how pissed off she'd be. I'm not looking forward to her return this weekend.

Maybe I'm being too cruel, as I tend to be. She might be a lovely lady who was just stressed out and running late for work earlier. Her and I aren't going to be friends. This is a job. I can't let this happen again.