One Last Miracle [complete]

XV

XV

one month, fourteen days...

The first thing I do when I awake the next morning is run to the toilet to throw up. Making it worse, I have the find the toilet first—and that, when I feel so violently nauseous, is nearly impossible.

I can remember when I drank all the time—and nothing affected me. Hangovers were rare, and worst case very mild. After so long, it clearly isn't the case anymore.

When I'm finally done throwing up, I sit back, wincing. Dragging myself up to flush the toilet, I gag at the smell. Rifling through the small basin on the right wall, I search for something to rid of the smell. Finally find air freshener, I spray it liberally, nearly choking on the fumes.

Easing the toilet door open, I grasp the wall, using it to keep my upright—

"Damn, girl," I hear from in front of me. "You really shouldn't have drank that much."

An arm wraps around my waist, and I can't help but lean into Jeremy. I want to say something—but my breath is so rancid I don't want him to smell it.

Jeremy laughs quietly. "How much did you drink?"

Too much, I think. But all that comes out is a groan, as everything starts to spin.

"Did you drink any water at all?"

Mutely, I shake my head.

He swears. Then he leads me into the kitchen, helping me onto a bar stool. I watch as he goes to the fridge, suddenly aware of how embarrassing this is. In defeat, I lay my head on the counter.

More laughter.

"This isn't funny," I mutter.

"It is," says Jeremy. "At least my brother can hold his alcohol better than you. Last thing anyone needs is for him to be throwing up too." He places a glass in front of me, ordering, "Drink."

I do as he says—and it's heavenly.

"You hungry?"

My stomach recoils. "God, no," I moan miserably.

"Didn't think so." He pauses. "Need help back to James' room?"

"I can manage," I say—because that's a level of mortification I can't handle.

"You sure?"

No, I think, but I'm already moving. Down the hall, I go. Second door on the left. No more than ten feet and I'm dizzy by the end of it. I push the door open, trying to be as quiet as possible, in case James is still asleep.

I blink against the harsh light, shuffling over to the bed. Then, I unceremoniously flop onto the bed, diving for the pillow. I should feel gross, still in the clothes from yesterday; I should change them.

Instead, all I can do is fall back asleep.

The second time I wake up, it's to James moving around his room. Rolling onto my back, I blink an eye open, squinting against the light. Everything aches. My head pounds. I feel heavy.

Not for the first time that morning I think about the fact that I'm never drinking again.

It's overrated. And, the morning after, when you reek of your own puke?

Watching James shuffle around, I can't help but feel annoyed. He looks fine; not hungover at all—while I feel like I've been to Hell and back. Still, I can't hold it against him for long—because in my post-drunken haze, I can't help but drink in the sight of him: the muscular lines of his back, the tattoo over his shoulder; his tousled hair and molten eyes.