Читать книгу Taking the Heat - Victoria Dahl - Страница 11

CHAPTER FIVE

VERONICA KNEW SHE was hungover before she even opened her eyes, but opening her eyes confirmed the state. Even the weak dawn light filtering past her blinds made her groan in pain. She’d had a hangover only twice before, but there was no mistaking the symptoms. Fuzzy tongue, queasy stomach, pounding headache.

Keeping her eyes closed, she sat slowly up and swung her feet over the bed. The room spun a little, but her stomach didn’t protest too much, thank God. In fact, a glass of cold milk sounded like something she’d pay a million dollars for. Promising herself a reward of returning to bed in just a few minutes, she pushed to her feet and shuffled to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the lights.

After the bathroom, she headed slowly to the fridge, hissing in pain like a vampire when the fridge light burned her retinas. She squeezed her eyes shut and managed to find the milk and get the door closed without having to brave the light again. She gulped down half a glass of milk, popped some ibuprofen and trudged back to her room.

She sank into her mattress with a sigh. “I should take off this dress,” she muttered to no one, but it seemed like a Herculean task. She pulled the covers over her head and slept.

The next time she woke up, the room was much brighter, but her headache was gone. Her body still ached, and her stomach felt hollow, but that was the worst of it. She was bone-dry, though, and when she saw the water on her bedside table, she sat up and gulped the rest of it down.

“God, I’m an idiot,” she moaned. She couldn’t remember how many martinis she’d had, but there’d been at least two before the show, and two was really her limit. She remembered the nice waitress and she remembered sitting with Gabe, and then... Then she’d obviously stumbled home and fallen into bed without even taking off her dress.

Looking down at herself, she winced. There were deep creases all over the pretty blue knit. She’d have to hand wash it and hope it recovered.

Veronica climbed from bed and struggled out of her dress and bra, then dug out yoga pants and a big T-shirt. This time, when she got to the bathroom, she turned on the light and regretted it immediately. Not because of her hangover, but because of what she saw in the mirror.

“Oh, holy mother of God,” she wheezed, staring wide-eyed at the hot mess that looked back at her. Her hair stood up in crazed tufts, as if she’d twisted her head into her pillow for half the night. Her skin was sallow and sickly looking, as befitted a woman with a hell of a hangover. But worst of all were her eyes, which were bloodshot and ringed with layers of purple and gray and black makeup that looked like a bruised rainbow.

Veronica dove for her bathroom drawer and frantically pulled out her makeup wipes. It took five minutes to get the eye makeup off, but the slight purplish tinge beneath her eyes wouldn’t budge. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Her skin felt invigorated, at least, though after all the scrubbing, she now looked as if she had pinkeye.

“Never again,” she promised herself. “No martinis next week.”

She was craving a hot breakfast, but no way was she leaving her house to grab anything. Even a hoodie and big sunglasses couldn’t cure her self-consciousness, so she ventured into her kitchen to see what she had. The inside of her fridge didn’t present the best options, but she did find cheese and some egg substitute. A bad omelet, then.

She set her finds on the counter, closed the fridge, then turned to flip the light switch, wincing instinctively at the shock of brightness.

But it was fine. She was fine. Because she’d been smart enough to get up and take ibuprofen hours before. This wasn’t so bad. Maybe she could handle a party lifestyle, after all.

She turned back to face the fridge, paused to feel her heart skip in her chest and then she screamed.

The white notebook paper stood out against the black door. Hand pressed to her mouth in horror, Veronica backed up until her ass hit the other counter. “No,” she whispered against her fingers. “No, no, no, no, no.”

#1—Let people see the real you.

“No!” she yelled at the paper.

Those bold black words were all it took for the whole evening to rush back at her. The way she’d flirted with Gabe, the way she’d told him she was flirting with him, the drunk, stumbling walk back to her apartment and then...

“Noooo,” she moaned, pressing her hand hard to her mouth as if she could somehow stop the words that had passed her lips the night before.

She’d told him her deepest secret. Confessed what no one could ever know. And then she’d asked if he’d help her take care of it.

Her stomach, which had felt merely hollow before, now churned with acid and sickness. It rose up and pushed at her throat. Veronica shook her head. She pressed her whole hand to her mouth, but there was no defeating it. She gave in and rushed to the bathroom.

She didn’t feel any better after she was sick. She only felt more pitiful, more wrung out. She’d told Gabe MacKenzie, the new hot guy in town, that she had no experience with fucking. And then she’d practically begged him to apply his penis to her charitable enterprise.

He’d somehow managed to resist her siren song, even after she’d started crying.

Oh, my God, she’d started crying while she asked him to come to bed with her.

He hadn’t come to bed. Thank God. What if he’d stayed? What if he’d spent the night and then woken up to find her goggling at him with her zombie raccoon eyes just before she vomited all over his naked body?

“Oh, God.” Yes, that was one way to look at the bright side of things. She hadn’t talked him into taking her virginity and then thrown up on his penis.

Veronica rinsed out her mouth, splashed cold water on her face and then tipped her head up to stare herself down in the mirror. Water dripped slowly from the pink tip of her nose. “I’ll have to move,” she said, watching the way her chin trembled. “I’ll have to start over in a new place where no one knows my shame.”

It was really the only solution. It was exactly what she’d tell anyone who wrote in to her. Leave immediately. Take only what you can carry. Slip out of town under cover of night. Start somewhere new and this time try not to be a pitiful disaster.

Except that wasn’t what she would say. She was overreacting. A little.

So what would she tell herself?

She felt dizzy at the thought. Or maybe she was dizzy from having consumed nothing but martinis and milk in the past twelve hours.

Feet dragging, she headed back to the kitchen to make her sad omelet. She might be having the same thing for lunch and dinner. She obviously couldn’t leave the house today.

She accidentally caught sight of the fridge as she poured the egg mixture into a pan. The black letters of the note glared at her. Let people see the real you? What a shitty idea that had been. She snatched the paper off the fridge and threw it into the trash. At least she could say she’d really tried it. The real her had been on full display last night. She’d given it her all. She’d practically shown him her real crotch.

She seasoned the omelet, flipped it over and added cheese. Then extra cheese.

Overreaction or not, she couldn’t leave town. She had nowhere to go. Jackson was the place she’d already retreated to. Her safe zone. Not that it had ever felt safe.

She could flee to her dad’s latest house. Abandon her pretense of independence and go live in one of his professionally decorated guest rooms. That wouldn’t feel exactly safe, either, but she’d still have a lot of privacy. His “cabin” was in the mountains and the closest neighbors were almost a mile away. Granted, that closest neighbor was Isabelle, one of Veronica’s best friends, but she was too much of a hermit to cause problems. And Veronica’s dad wouldn’t bother her. She’d hardly seen him at all the last time she’d stayed there.

Still...maybe she wasn’t as destroyed as she thought she was, because the thought of moving to her dad’s house lit a fire inside her, a burning fire that felt a lot like heartburn. She wasn’t ready to give up yet. Not completely.

She ate her sad omelet and took a shower and put on a slightly less baggy T-shirt that made her small breasts look slightly more visible. She used some Visine and brushed her teeth and styled her hair. That was good, safe advice she could give herself. You’ll feel better if you make an effort, even if it’s just brushing your teeth.

She peeked out her front window, then backed quickly away when she saw people walking past.

Gabe knew where she lived. What if he stopped by? She’d made him promise, after all. But surely he never wanted to be in her presence again. Surely he’d play it safe and assume that a promise made to an insane drunk girl wasn’t meant to be kept.

So she was stuck here. Her apartment was the safest place for her. She could do her work and sneak out only during Gabe’s work hours. Maybe she could somehow get his schedule from Lauren. Yes. Avoidance. That was the best tactic.

Unless he decided to share his story. It was pretty funny, after all. Really funny. Veronica was the only one who wouldn’t be laughing. And maybe Veronica’s boss. He wouldn’t find it funny at all.

“Shit,” she breathed. Gabe didn’t seem the type to gossip. He seemed entirely trustworthy. But she’d met him only twice. Maybe he was a catty, cruel asshole. Maybe he was the kind of guy who would’ve hung out with Veronica’s stepbrother in high school and laughed every time she walked by. Maybe he’d already texted his ten closest friends and then spread the tale around the library.

Veronica checked her phone to see if Lauren had texted or called. But no, there were no messages from Lauren. Or Veronica’s boss. And there weren’t any accusatory emails from readers, either.

But there were quite a few emails asking for help from Dear Veronica. She should really get to work.

Even so, she switched back to her texts and stared at Lauren’s name. Maybe Lauren would have good advice to give. And Isabelle, too. Maybe Veronica could tell her friends at least some of the truth and see what they thought.

But what if they just stared at her in horror and then made excuses never to see her again? They were both a little older and a lot more together. Lauren had already raised a kid and sent him off to college, and her new boyfriend was a silver-fox fire captain. And Isabelle was a successful artist who owned her own land and was dating a studly US marshal. Veronica really had nothing in common with either of them, but they’d still included her, inviting her along for girls’ nights out and treating her as an equal. She didn’t want them to know that she wasn’t an equal. Didn’t want to admit she was a fraud.

But the next girls’ night was on Sunday. And she was getting a little tired of always being on guard. What if she treated them like real friends instead of just women who intimidated her?

She had a few days to work up to it. She could always change her mind.

Taking a deep breath, she took her notebook and marker from the drawer.

#2, she wrote, Ask your friends for help. She stuck it to the fridge and stared at it for a whole minute. It looked wrong up there by itself, so she set her jaw and pulled the first note from the trash to put it back in its place.

Her stomach tensed at the sight of both notes together, but she nodded. Two tiny things. Two basic pieces of advice that she’d give anyone. Surely she could pull this off. She needed help from her friends, and the only way to get it was to reveal a few tiny bits of herself. No big deal. No problem.

She turned off the kitchen light and took her computer to her room. She had a few days. She’d start dealing with her issues on Sunday. But today? Today she’d hide.

She put in her earbuds, cranked up the music and started reading letters. And the letters started to help her feel halfway normal.