Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77718 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Ah, little too much to drink.” He chuckles good-naturedly. “I’ll flag you a cab now.”
I want to scream that I haven’t had anything to drink. That I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I can’t seem to form the words.
The next thing I know, I’m in a taxi. I manage to give my address to the cabbie.
He turns and looks at me. “You’re not gonna puke, are you, love?”
I shake my head and immediately regret it.
Closing my eyes, I lay my head back on the seat as the car pulls away.
“That’ll be fifteen fifty.” The sound of a male voice jolts me awake.
Where am I?
Cab.
I look out the window.
I’m outside my building.
I rifle in my purse, pull out a twenty, and hand it to him. I don’t wait for the change. Then, I fumble with the door, pull the handle, and manage to get it open.
I literally fall out of the cab. Bringing myself upright, I hold on to the car door. I get it closed and turn to my building.
The stairs look like a mountain.
I’m so tired.
I just need to get in my apartment, and I’ll be fine.
I stagger up the steps of my building, gripping the railing for support.
Somehow, I make it inside, and I lean against the wall, closing my eyes. I feel myself start to slide down the wall. Somehow, I stop myself. I push away from the wall and move over to my door. I dig for my keys and drop my cell on the floor.
“Shit,” I mumble. I don’t even have the energy to pick it up.
With a lot of difficulty, I get my key in my door. I turn the lock and open it. I fall through, losing my balance, and I hit the floor of my living room with a thud.
“Shit.” I moan in pain.
I can’t get up. I’m too spent.
What’s wrong with me?
I manage to shut the door with my foot and just lie there, unable to move.
My head is swimming. I can barely lift it off the floor. I try, and my stomach revolts.
I’m going to be sick.
I throw up all over the floor, right where I am.
“No,” I groan, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
What’s wrong with me?
I just need to sleep, and then I’ll be okay.
I hear my cell start to ring from somewhere.
I’ll get it later. Too tired.
I’m vaguely aware that I need to clean my mess up, but I have no energy, so I leave it.
I slowly drag myself across the floor, crawling toward the sofa. A wave of nausea hits me again. So, I stop moving and just lie down on the floor.
I’ll just stay here awhile.
And then I’ll be fine.
I hear my cell start to ring again in the far-off distance.
Later. I’ll get it later. Rest now.
I close my eyes.
And everything goes black.
Hammering. Sounds like hammering.
I blink my heavy eyes open.
Where am I?
I see my coffee table above my head, realizing I’m on the floor.
What am I doing down here?
Bang! Bang!
“Arianna, open the fucking door!”
Ares?
I push myself up onto my hands and knees and sit up. My head spins.
“Shit.” I wince, putting my hand to my head.
What happened?
Oh God. I didn’t drink…did I?
I flash through hazy memories. Leo…Diet Coke…feeling ill…getting home…being sick.
I turn my head and see the puke on the floor.
Shit.
More pounding.
“Arianna! I know you’re in there! Open the fucking door!”
He’s angry.
Why?
“Coming,” I call, my voice raspy. I get to my feet with the help of the sofa. I’ve still got my shoes on and last night’s clothes.
This feels so very reminiscent of the last eight years of my life.
But I didn’t drink anything.
I pull my shoes off as I pad over to the door and open it.
The look on his face.
Disgust. Distaste. Anger. Betrayal.
He’s holding something out to me. I look down at his hand, confused.
He’s holding my cell.
Why does he have my cell?
“I was trying to call you all night.” His voice is cold and hard.
“Why do you have my cell?”
“I found it out here in the hall. Clearly, you were that fucking wasted that you didn’t even know you’d lost it.”
“I—”
He cuts me off with a slash of his hand. “I don’t want to fucking hear it, Ari.” He storms past me into my apartment.
I close the door and turn to face him, leaning on the door for support, feeling like crap. “I don’t understand. Why are you so angry?” I ask softly, my head pounding.
He lets out a bitter laugh. “Have you seen the state of yourself?” His eyes go down to the floor, and he spots the vomit there. Another acidic laugh. “Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head, like he’s seen this scene a million times before.
He has.
“I was sick last night,” I quietly tell him.
“Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?”
“What?” I say, confused.