Seventeen-year old first year college student Josie Clarke would prefer not to blush the colour crimson at every little thing, but Idiopathic Craniofacial Erythema, a chronic facial condition doesn't play fair.
In fact, it's as uncontrollable...
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Mum calls up again, offering food to line my stomach, to make it ache slightly less, but I'd much rather she just hand over the cure for the hangover raging on deep within me.
I could barely stomach the water and dry toast she bought up earlier, and the thought of anything else only makes my tummy twist tight.
I won't be getting out of bed anytime soon, that's for sure.
And though I've made out all morning I'm down in the dumps because of one too many shots last night, it's not entirely true. I'm consumed by guilt too, for arguing with Max and making a mountain about of a mole hill.
No matter if that mole hill is really a leggy, gorgeous blonde sort-of-ex, snogging partner, who sprung up at the worst possible moment and saw me make a right tit of myself.
I've got to look beyond that.
I might be able to wiggle free of the hangovers clutches soon, but I can't wiggle away from the fact that I owe him an apology. I need to man up. Go round and mend any damage done from loose lips and apple sours, and unexpected jealously.
And once I've got another round of shut eye in and I feel less like I'm made of unset, soggy jelly, I shuffle downstairs into the kitchen and drag my heavy limbs up onto a stool by the counter. Mum's too busy sorting out letting brochures to notice, until what I hope is the last, dying breath of my hangover spills out as a loud, throaty groan.
"Afternoon," she says, tapping them all into a neat pile. "Do I dare ask how you're feeling?"
Like I've a black cloud hanging over my head with no intention of clearing?
Like my throat's made of sandpaper?
Like I'll never feel normal, ever, ever again?
I settle for a short round up. "Epically rubbish."
She chuckles to herself and hands me over a fresh glass of water. "You do look like death warmed up, if I'm being honest."
"That feels about right," I say, the ache in my skull agreeing.
"So, why are you up? Your dad thought you'd at least be in bed until tonight."
I really want nothing more than to retreat back under my duvet but I can't. A phone call won't show just how sorry I am for what I said and how I said it, so I need to say it all in person, even if I do look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards.
"I need to go back to The Montgomery's,'" I tell her because she's not stupid. If she didn't know by now that we're more than 'friends', then she certainly does now, I've just not got the desire or patience to go into any detail. "I left something there, last night."
