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An acoustic guitar is mounted on one wall with an amplifier below it, and picks are assorted from darkest to lightest on their own little rack. On one windowsill is a display of vintage cast irons; on another are old road signs, rusted and weathered and bent. On another wall hangs brand new band tees, from Blink 182 to The Horrors; my eyes search for The Maine, already knowing I won’t find it.
I need to leave, but I can’t stop looking. He has everything on display, and the care and precision in which things are assorted proves how much these things mean to him. And he’s proud; this room is full of everything he loves. It almost feels like a gateway into his mind.
But I really need to pee.
I beeline for another door, relieved to see this is actually a bathroom.
On the edge of the bed is a neatly folded oversized T-shirt that says EAT, SLEEP, FIX CARS, REPEAT in yellow block letters, and some woolly pyjama bottoms.
I’m used to wearing men’s clothing. Whenever I can afford to purchase new clothes, the men’s section is my favourite, because their hoodies actually have deep pockets and they’re just more snug.
I want to leave, but I should thank him first. Ditching him by jumping through his window and scaling downthe trellis would be a dick move—especially since he carried me here.
Oh my God.
Hecarriedme.
Chasecarried me.
Damn. I wish I’d been sober for that.
I shove on the clothes and head out into a white, brightly-lit hall. I find him in the kitchen. It’s a massive space with a white, marble floor and black, sleek cabinets. The kitchen is pushed into a corner, because the dining table dominates the rest of it.
I pull out a stool from the island and perch on it.
Chase turns around and grins at me. For a wild moment it’s so easy to imagine we’re married, with good jobs, and he’s cooking me breakfast, and he’s just happy to see me.
But he also told me he doesn’t have feelings for me. He’s just being nice. A gentleman. He’s probably cooking himself breakfast.
‘How’s your head?’ he asks. He places a lid over the frying pan and lets the bacon and eggs simmer. He unties the navy apron, revealing—you guessed it—a button-down shirt and black jeans.
‘Splitting,’ I say hoarsely.
‘Tea?’
I nod, and even that makes my brain rattle.
He places the mug in front of me, and I curl my fingers around it.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ I say. ‘About me throwing up.’
He leans against the counter and sips from his coffee. Yuck. ‘I’ll admit, I’ve never had an experience quite like that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well.’ He clears his throat. ‘When I was carrying you home, you kept trying to see how straight you could keep your body, which made for a very awkward explanation when a police car stopped me. They thought I was kidnapping you.’
Hot flushes rise up and down my body.
‘I put you down after that, and then you ran into someone’s garden, emptied a hanging basket, and put it on your head. You kept saying that if you manage to walk all the way home without dropping it, I have to buy you a pizza.’
I groan and drop my head onto the island.
‘Andthen—yes, there’s more—you spent half an hour trying to stroke a cat that wanted nothing to do with you. You cried because it was really ugly and it made you sad.’
Oh my God.
‘And when we eventually got home, you cried even more because you didn’t have a toothbrush or makeup wipes, and you kept pushing me away when I tried to wipe off your makeup. And then you used my toothbrush and put it down the toilet instead of back on the sink.’
