The beginnings of my smile died abruptly.
I sighed. “First door on the left.”
“Thank you.” Bonnie nodded, then promptly bolted down the hall.
I placed her things on my kitchen table. The dinner I’d been looking forward to went directly into the refrigerator. Next, I set about filling a glass of water and getting out the over-the-counter painkillers. I made my way to the linen closet and grabbed a washcloth, wetting it in the kitchen sink.
Horrible sounds came from the bathroom, but we’d all been there a time or two. I was a thirty-three-year-old man, and I hadn’t overindulged in quite a while, but I still rememberedwhat it felt like to have your body reject all the alcohol you’d poured into it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why the Puking Princess had made some questionable choices tonight. There was a small part of me—very small, mind you—that could understand the desire to drink away the day your divorce became final.
The toilet flushed, and I lingered in the hallway a moment longer. I pushed the already cracked door open enough to see Bonnie sitting cross-legged on my bathroom rug, her head in her hands. Her dress was short, but the skirt was full. Thankfully, there was enough material fanned out to keep her covered.
A curtain of pale blond hair hid her face. She elicited a pitiful moan when I draped the cool cloth across the nape of her neck.
I sat down, facing her with my back to the cabinet below the sink. “Want some water?”
She actually growled, and I fought another smile. “Maybe in a few,” I amended.
“Go ahead and laugh,” she croaked, voice hoarse from the last five minutes of hurling. “I know you want to.”
“I don’t want to laugh,” I said, but I was smiling.
I should have been annoyed, and I was—a little. This woman had caused a scene in my bar and eaten my appetizers. She was puking in my bathroom instead of at her own house, where she belonged. But she was clearly regretting her life choices. I could just tell she was normally a Goody Two-shoes and never did this sort of thing. Maybe she had needed to cut loose for the night.
Plus, there had been that whole thing downstairs where she’d brought up my past, reminding me that in the eyes of this town,I’d always be a teenage delinquent and general loser. That was the guy she remembered. Someone selfish and arrogant who ditched school. Someone careless who pulled pranks and didn’t have friends. A lone wolf, she’d called me.
Maybe I liked the role reversal now. Here I was, the responsible one, while Little Miss Perfect was hunched over a toilet seat like a reckless coed.
“Everything is spinning,” she slurred before slumping over onto my outstretched legs.
“What do you need?” I asked, meaning it, wanting to make her feel better. I didn’t know where the urge came from. Maybe it was the desire to be different than the teenager she remembered. Not that she was likely to recall any of this in the morning anyway.
In response, she folded in on herself, curling into the fetal position with her head resting on my thigh. Lying on her side, she wrapped her arms around her legs.
Snagging a clean towel off the rack above my feet, I spread it over her bare shoulders. Then I brushed her messy hair behind one ear and moved the cool cloth from her neck to her forehead.
“That feels good,” Bonnie mumbled, eyes shut tight against the spinning, as if she could stop the world from tilting out of control just by willing it so. And maybe she could. She seemed like one of those optimistic, determined people who were always ready with a guidance counselor quote and a can-do attitude.
I kept moving her hair out of the way, carding the strands back from her face so that the washcloth could soothe her forehead and along her temple.
It should have felt weird to take care of this virtual stranger. I’d never had much practice taking care of anyone. But as my fingers smoothed Bonnie’s soft hair and she curled further into my side, I couldn’t help but admit, it felt weirdly good to do something nice for someone else—especially someone who needed it.
“I hate myself,” she whispered suddenly, out of the blue.
I frowned and opened my mouth to tell her that nearly everyone has overindulged at one time or another.
But then, eyes still pressed firmly closed, she confessed, “Because I’d take him back. If he asked. If he wanted me. Which he doesn’t.”
I had no idea what to say to that. I’d never been in a long-term relationship, much less married. I didn’t know what it would feel like to be with someone like that ... and then lose them. If she thought I’d judge her for the admission, she didn’t need to worry.
But suddenly her chin wobbled, and I felt something twist inside my chest.
“I don’t want to move on,” she said roughly. “It feels too big. How could I throw away something I spent half my life building and just start over? I think—I think I’d rather be unhappy than be a failure. How fucked up is that?”
Not that fucked up, I thought. Pretty human, all things considered. And that was coming from a loser who never bothered to feel bad about throwing in the towel on a variety of things—school, sports, family. Everything but my current job. Magnolia Bar was the only thing I’d ever really accomplished.
But I stayed quiet, sensing she just needed someone to listen, not relate or commiserate.
Sometimes people simply needed to whisper the truth so it wouldn’t be so loud in their own heads.
