HADLEY LIKES TO think of himself as a man not prone to self-pity. He spends less time wallowing in a pool of doubt and hesitation and more charging bravely and blindly into the future. Time wasted hesitating is time lost forever.
Maybe some hesitation is good, Hadley thinks with a sort of clarity that only comes with violently retching into the toilet. Maybe self-doubt isn't all that bad.
"Are you done?" Philippa asks, behind Hadley's closed bathroom door.
Hadley only heaves some more.
"Christ, what did you have last night?"
The thing was that Hadley drank with the intention of being knocked out cold for the next few days, if not weeks. Waking up with an insanely bad hangover and feeling like something had died in the back of his throat was not the intention. If there was an intention at all.
As always, it was hard to say what prompted the drinking. If Hadley was feeling truthful, he'd say that it was frustration—frustration with David's sudden disappearance, the realization that his feelings for him weren't all chummy, what this could possibly mean for him and Vic, and literally everything else that bothered him in the slightest.
But he's not feeling truthful. He's feeling like hell. And since he's feeling hellish, he thinks that what prompted the drinking was the fact that he was a stupid, self-destructive moron with no fucking concern for the repercussions of his stupid fucking actions.
Hadley's not a man prone to self-pity. But self-pity isn't the same thing as self-hatred.
"I'm assuming it's over now," Philippa says, with a hint of disdain that somehow manages to carry over despite Hadley's raging headache. "Judging by the lack of puking sounds."
"Mmmgh," Hadley says, intelligibly.
"What? I didn't get that."
Hadley flushes the toilet. Washes his face without once looking in the mirror, knowing that if he does catch a glimpse of the mess he's right now, it's going to make him angry. The last thing he needs, in addition to feeling like a garbage pile, is being an angry garbage pile. Especially if Philippa's in the same room.
Slowly, he unlocks the door. He opens it, just a crack, and peeks through the sliver of space, and meets Philippa's eyes.
She narrows her eyes at him. "You know what I don't understand? What unearthly urge possessed you to get drunk the night right before Mother was going to arrive—"
He shuts the door.
"Oh, for God's sake," she says. "Open the door, James."
"How do you know," Hadley says, rasping the words out, "Mother's coming home today?"
"Don't you check the family group chat?"
He rests his forehead against the door. "I didn't know there was a family group chat."
"Of course," Philippa says. "Of course. Why do I even bother?"
"Don't yell," Hadley mutters. "Please don't yell."
"I'm not yelling," she says, wearily. She knocks on the door, just once. "There's some Tylenol and Advil on the table."
How strange, the way she cares for Hadley. He can't ever recall doing anything to her to warrant this sort of affection.
"You didn't have to," he says.
