Blues

39. Blue Sky Mine

Hello, Folks!

Happy Valentine's day, y'all! In love's honor, I'm giving away the rest of this very book, which makes approximately 11 chapters, for the first 15 commenters! It will be in exchange of an honest review of the book on Goodreads :)!

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Chapter Thirty-Nine:

"You did what?" I shrill, immediately repenting it when the throbbing in my head multiplies. My queasy stomach is a pain in the ass alone, and the sports drink he shoved down my throat, along with the coconut water bottle, were enough to make my stomach a jumble, yet they were never able to cure my afflictive hangover.

My little flare-up is met by complete, disregarding silence. I brace my palms against the kitchen island, blasting missiles of fire at his back with my furious eyes. Moments later, he places a plate of crunchy bacon with toast in front of me, before he puts another for himself, totally ignoring me and my angry deportment. "What?" He asks when I don't pick up a single piece of the food. "It was covered in puke. It was a pretty dress, but I couldn't imagine seeing you wearing it ever again."

I cross my arms. "I'm sure you would've survived. I threw up all over your goddamn floor, for fuck's sake!"

He stops chewing, his face contorting with disgust. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm eating. You should thank me and apologize, you know. That's what sane people do when they puke on other people's floors." He continues chewing. "Besides, you have a lot of money. I'm sure you can buy a substitute."

I roll my eyes, before I shove a piece of bacon in my mouth, my stomach feeling awfully empty. "I don't have that much money." I mumble.

"Excuse me?" He asks, squinting at me. "I thought you were a billionaire."

I sigh. "I am, supposedly. I refuse to use that money, though."

"Because your family gave you that money too late, after your mother and young sister died." He states, leaning back in his seat. His face is pat stolid, yet his eyes show something that I disfavor more than most things in my life; sympathy.

I know that look very well. I've been accumulating it for long now, that I can recognize it from the first glance. A look of ruth directed at me, before it's moved to another, and that's how it goes. A look that solves no conundrum; a look that soothes no soreness.

Yet, receiving it from him doesn't give me the same feeling. It doesn't make me happy. It doesn't make me angry. It abandons me in a place where it feels like I'm being bosomed with echt affection, and not a false feeling that doesn't help a spot.

"You've been digging like that bitch, huh?" I ask, the mixed feelings overwhelming me.

He frowns. "Not really. You're the one who told me last night that your family wouldn't help your mother when your little sister was sick."

I meet his frown with one of mine, rubbing my forehead. "I don't remember saying​ such a thing."

His flabbergasted expression morphs into a cryptic one, his eyes becoming glassy. "You don't remember what I told you after?"

My frown deepens, and I struggle for the hundredth time to remember what happened, but my memories break off at the reminiscence of yours truly vomiting onto his floor. Snippets of him tucking me into bed are all I can recall from what happened after. "Not really. Was it something important?"