Learning to Fall (13 page)

“Come on, little fox.” Still holding me with one arm, Daniel extended the other to Whitney and helped her to her feet. “I’ll walk you both home.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Forgetting I had heels on, I tried to stop and would have face planted if Daniel hadn’t grabbed the back of my jeans and hauled me upright. He readjusted his hold on my waist, hooking his fingers around the jut of my hip and pulling me in tight against his side.

“Just let him walk us home,” Whitney said, leaning in front of Daniel to glare at me. “He won’t try to have sex with you.” She turned her glare on Daniel. “No sex with Mo, okay?”

“Okay,” he said solemnly.

“Okay,” I agreed.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Whitney muttered two seconds before she did exactly that.

CHAPTER NINE

Aftermath

I woke to the smell of bacon cooking and the sound of singing.

Bad singing.

Awful
singing.

Clutching my head with both hands, I managed to sit up and roll out of bed. For one blissful moment the events of the night before were nothing but a foggy dream…until I happened to glance down and saw my clothes strewn across my bedroom floor and everything returned with vivid, cringe-worthy clarity.

“No,” I groaned. “Oh no. No, no,
no
.”

I promptly sat back down on the edge of my mattress, only to stumble to my feet and make a mad dash for the bathroom when the bitter taste of vomit flooded my mouth. Reaching the toilet just in time, I fell to my knees, flipped open the porcelain lid, and proceeded to throw up four glasses of wine and two (or three?) cherry martinis. Staring down at the pink water, I hit the handle and made myself watch as my poor life decisions were whisked away down the drain.

This is what you get
, I told myself as I struggled to my feet and staggered over to the mirror to examine my bloodshot reflection in the silver glass.
This is what you get for being reckless, irresponsible, and careless. Are you happy? Because you don’t
look
happy.

What I looked like was a hungover twenty-four-year-old with makeup smeared all over her face, hair sticking up in all directions, and dark circles under her eyes.

“Why?” I asked my reflection. “Why would you do that? You’re an idiot, Drunk Imogen. A complete
idiot
.” Wetting a washcloth with cold water, I slapped it against my face and proceeded to vigorously scrub off all the layers of blush, eyeliner, mascara and sweat until my skin was clean and rosy pink. Rinsing the washcloth before hanging it up to dry, I applied a liberal amount of toothpaste on my toothbrush and gave my mouth the same treatment. Beginning to feel marginally better now that I had the taste of regurgitated alcohol out of my mouth, I pulled my hair to the side and leaned down to spit in the sink before popping back up to glare at myself. “And don’t think you’re off the hook, Sober Imogen,” I said sternly, brandishing my toothbrush as though it were a weapon. “You’re the one who got us into this mess.”

And what a mess it had been. The things I’d said to Whitney, to Daniel, to some red-haired guy whose name I couldn’t remember, things that had seemed
so
important and necessary while under the influence of wine and cherry martinis, were now humiliating in the light of day. Had I actually told Daniel I liked him?
No, not Daniel,
I recalled miserably. I’d told Whitney while Daniel was standing right there giving me water because I’d been too drunk to lift my head up off the bar.

There was only one thing to do. Get back in bed, pull the covers over my head, and pretend last night had never happened. Except I couldn’t. Because someone was cooking bacon downstairs. And I had a sinking suspicion exactly who that someone was.

Whitney didn’t cook, which ruled her out, and she hadn’t brought anyone home from the bar.

But I had.

Daniel
.  

With a squeak of dismay I rushed into my bedroom and yanked open my pajama drawer. Pulling on the first two things my hands could grab - a pair of ratty gray sweatpants and a crimson Harvard sweatshirt - I scooped my hair into a ponytail and took the stairs two at a time. On the very last step I stopped short, hands gripping the wooden railing as my momentum threatened to send me flying through the air. Suddenly filled with uncertainty, I hovered on the bottom step, bare toes curling over the ledge. What was I supposed to say to Daniel? After the way I’d behaved last night, what
could
I say? Maybe it would be better just to go back upstairs and hide in my room until he left. Quiet as a mouse, I started to turn around…but before I could make a full retreat Daniel poked his head out of the kitchen and spied me.

“There you are.” Noting the direction of my body, he lifted a brow. “Running away again?”

“No, of course not, I just forgot…” Screw it. I was too hungover to make up excuses. “Yes,” I admitted, shoulders slumping as I shuffled into the kitchen. “Yes I was.”

Daniel studied me for a moment, his assessing gaze missing nothing as it skimmed from the top of my frizzy head to the bottom of my raggedy sweatpants. Then he smiled, and the entire kitchen seemed to light up. Or maybe it was just my hungover eyes adjusting to the sunlight spilling in through the open windows.

With a beautiful old stone floor, pine cabinets, and wooden countertops, the kitchen was quintessential New England. Two large windows with deep sills overlooked the front yard and a smaller window above the sink offered a leaf obstructed view of the neighbor’s house. White lace curtains - installed by the landlord’s wife - flapped lightly in the breeze.

“I was wondering when you would wake up. Here, have a seat.” Pulling out a chair from the kitchen table, Daniel gestured for me to sit down. I did so slowly, feeling as though I had inadvertently stepped into a dream. A
good
dream, but a dream nevertheless, for surely this couldn’t be happening. Surely Daniel wasn’t
really
standing in my kitchen cooking me breakfast, because in what world did that ever happen? In what story did the hero carry the drunken heroine home, put her to bed, and make her bacon while singing Adele?  

“I grabbed a shower when I woke up.” Daniel swept his fingers through hair that was still damp and slightly curled at the ends. He’d put on his clothes from the night before - blue jeans and a black t-shirt - but his feet were bare. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I blinked at him. He seemed real enough. He certainly
sounded
real enough. Which meant this wasn’t a dream. It was really happening. Daniel was actually standing in my kitchen looking hotter than I’d ever seen him and I…I looked like something the cat I didn’t have yet had spit up. Tugging self-consciously at the hem of my sweatshirt, I drew my legs onto the chair and wrapped my arms around my knees as Daniel returned to the stove and used a spatula to flip something over. A pancake? An egg? It was hard to tell from where I was sitting.

“How many pieces of bacon do you want?” he asked without turning around.  

“Oh I…I don’t eat bacon. I’m a vegetarian,” I explained when Daniel whipped around, eyes wide and spatula still in hand.

“You don’t eat
bacon
?”

“No. I do eat salmon three or four times a year. But only if it’s ethically raised and harvested. The omega-3 fatty acids in fish are very beneficial to your health.” I bit the inside of my cheek. “Daniel, about last night-”

“How can you not eat bacon?” he asked, staring at me as though I’d just admitting to murdering small puppies in my spare time. “I don’t understand. Have you
ever
eaten bacon?”

“Well no, but only because-”

“What’s wrong with you?” He shook his head. “Who doesn’t like bacon?” 

My shoulders stiffened. Daniel hadn’t seemed to mind when I deserted him at Poppy’s without a word of explanation, but admitting to being a vegetarian was a criminal offense? “Nothing is
wrong
with me,” I said defensively. “I have simply chosen not to eat an animal that is considered by many scientists to be of higher intelligence than a-”  

“Did someone say bacon? It smells amazing in here. I’m
starving
.” Waltzing into the kitchen with a surprising amount of pep and energy given the fact that she’d had to stop three times to throw up in the bushes on our way home last night, Whitney pulled out the chair across from mine and plunked herself down. “Are those pancakes?” she asked, nostrils flaring as she sniffed the air.

“They are,” Daniel confirmed.

“And eggs?”

“Yep.”

“You are officially my new favorite person. Sorry Mo,” she said with a sideways glance at me, “but anyone who cooks me breakfast when I’m this hungover is nothing short of a god.”

Eyes narrowing, I took a quick assessment of her perfectly tousled hair, pink tank top, and black yoga pants. If that was what hungover looked like then I was pretty confident I qualified as dead. “You don’t
look
hungover.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” she said cheerfully. “I’m still in the post-drunk stage. Give me an hour or so and I’ll be moaning over the toilet like you were.”

My cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t moaning over the toilet!”

“Total moaning. But it’s fine.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Wine hangovers are the
worst
.”

“They are really bad,” Daniel agreed as he set two plates piled high with pancakes, bacon, and eggs down in front of us. “You should take some aspirin and make sure to drink lots of water today.”

Whitney leaned over my plate. “Can I have your bacon? Mo’s a vegetarian,” she told Daniel.

“So I’ve heard,” he said, frowning at me.

“What is so wrong with being a vegetarian? And no,” I said, yanking my plate back when Whitney reached for it, “you
can’t
have my bacon.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “You’re not going to eat it.”

“Just because,” I muttered.

“You’re just cranky because you’re hungover as shit.” Whitney waved her fork at me. “You’re going to regret being so mean when you feel better.”

“Here,” I said grudgingly, using my knife to nudge three pieces of bacon onto her plate.

“You’re the best,” Whitney beamed. “And this bacon is
delicious
,” she added after cramming an entire piece in her mouth. “You are seriously missing out, Mo.”

“How long have you been a vegetarian?” Daniel asked. He’d returned to the stove and was flipping the remaining pancakes into a plastic container.

“Eight years.” I had stopped eating meat after completing an extra credit research project in high school on the welfare and treatment of animals bound for slaughter. The pictures I’d seen and the stories I’d read had been enough to turn me off from meat forever. I wasn’t an activist and I didn’t often lecture people on the health benefits of becoming a vegetarian, but I was firm in my personal decision not to eat meat and no one - not even Daniel Logan - was going to change my mind.  

“Eight
years
? That’s a long time.”

“If you knew how cows and pigs were treated during the slaughter process, you would-” I stopped abruptly when Daniel put up his hand, a pained expression on his face.

“Stop,” he said. “Please don’t ruin bacon for me. I’m begging you.”

Drizzling a small amount of maple syrup over my pancakes, I began to cut them into neat, bite-sized pieces. “Fine,” I said, popping a piece into my mouth. “But just because you choose to remain ignorant about something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

Our gazes met and held, neither one of us willing to give way. It was the first time we’d had anything resembling a disagreement…the first time I felt comfortable enough with Daniel
to
disagree. He narrowed his eyes. I narrowed mine. The muscles surrounding my mouth quivered as I fought back the sudden urge to smile, and I saw Daniel doing the same.

“I don’t know if I can like someone who doesn’t like bacon,” he said with mock severity.

“I don’t know if I can like someone who
does
like bacon,” I tossed back.

Looking back and forth between us, Whitney set her fork down with a clatter. “I’m too hungover for this,” she decided. “Can you two just bone already? All this sexual tension is killing my appetite.”

I blinked and looked away from Daniel as a blush overtook my cheeks. Sexual tension. Was that what the fluttering I felt low in my belly was? The heat I felt on the back of my neck? The slight acceleration of my pulse every time Daniel’s eyes met mine?

Not seeming the least bit fazed by Whitney’s comment, Daniel grinned at me and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

“I guess,” I echoed, returning his grin with a small, self-conscious smile as my blush slowly faded.

“Thank God,” Whitney muttered. “Finally I can stuff my face in peace and quiet.”

I made a face at her before I started to eat my own pancakes in earnest, hoping some food would help settle my stomach. I’d felt fine when I first came downstairs, but the full effects of all the alcohol I had consumed was definitely catching up to me. Sneaking a peek at Daniel, I frowned when I saw he was loading all of the pots and pans he’d used to cook breakfast into the dishwasher. “Aren’t you going to stay and eat with us?”

The irony of my question didn’t escape me. The last Daniel and I had pancakes I’d fled like the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels and now
I
was asking
him
to stay. I held my breath as I waited for his answer, fingers tangling in the ends of the tablecloth.