I Can Explain (Awkward Love 2)

I’ll figure this out in a minute. I know there’s a way for me to fix this; I just need to close my eyes for a second to work it out.Pain shoots through my head, taking my breath away. I crack open my eyes. It’s morning. I’m lying on Alana’s bed, with my head crooked in an unnatural angle. Shit. I gasp as I straighten it, then somehow manage to roll over onto my stomach. I awkwardly stand up and rub my neck, trying to massage out the kink. I gasp, not sure if I’m helping it or making it worse. I stumble back into my room and pick up my phone.

Shit. I’m about to miss my plane. I frantically throw my things into my suitcase and zip it shut. I don't even bother changing, because I know I don’t have the time.After I check out, I flag down a cab to take me to the airport. My only saving grace is that traffic is minimal, so I arrived just as they’re closing off the check-in booth.

“Please,” I say after rushing up to the booth.

I’m out of breath and clearly a mess, so I hope she takes pity on me. When I think I almost have her, I flash her a smile. She almost visibly melts, her cheeks flushing.

“Okay, just this once, Mr. Winston,” she says with a giggle.

Thank fucking God. It’s good to know that even hungover and in desperate need of a shower, I’ve still got it.I alternate the flight back between sleeping off my hangover and glancing longingly at the empty seat next to me. Where is she right now? She obviously caught an earlier flight—which she would’ve paid with using her own money, considering I had authorization over these two tickets. I think about what that means. I upset her so much that she couldn’t stand being on the same flight as me.

I rub my head, trying to ease the aching. The worst thing is that I have no idea how to fix this mess. I tried calling her while waiting to board the plane, but she wouldn’t answer, so I tried texting. Even if she does listen to me for long enough to hear me out, she’s right. I still lied to her, multiple times. Would I forgive someone who’d lied to me more than they’d told the truth? Probably not.

I’m still hung-over and feeling sorry for myself when the flight lands, so I don’t risk driving home. I call myself a cab and give the driver Alana’s address. I don’t intend on trying to speak to her, I just want to know she’s safe. As we drive past her place, I can just make out the glow of a light inside. It doesn’t make me feel much better, but not much will at this point. The driver looks at me and shrugs.

I guess I’ll go home.

“Take me to four one one Wilson Boulevard instead, please,” I order him gruffly.

I slump down in the seat and stare out the window. I hate not knowing where I stand. Okay, so I’ve got a pretty good idea of where I stand right now, but I hate not knowing if I can fix this. God, I hope I can.I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling, before my eyes dart to my phone again. I sigh when I see no texts or calls from her. I have no idea if she'll even be at work tomorrow. Not that that’s high on my list of problems right now. I roll over and close my eyes, trying to will myself into sleeping, but it’s no use. I can’t get her out of my head. I just keep running over that moment, again and again.

In the end, I throw back the sheets and stalk out to the kitchen and reach for the bottle of scotch I keep on top of the fridge. I twist off the cap and gulp it down, not bothering with a glass.

Breathing hard, I lean against the counter. My hands run slowly over the surface as I remember how it felt to be inside her. Right here on this surface. It feels like so long ago. I hoist myself up and lie back, closing my eyes.I groan and shield my eyes from the sun that’s pouring through the window. Why the fuck am I out here? I sit up, letting out a growl as my back sticks to the counter, practically ripping off a layer of skin.

Fuck me.

Jumping off the counter, I gingerly take a few steps. I spy the empty bottle of scotch lying beside the sink and sigh as bits of the night come back to me. All I wanted was to go to sleep and get her out of my head. Fuck. Alana. I glance around, looking for my phone. Alcohol and I are not a good mix when I’m depressed, so God only knows what kind of pitiful, desperate texts I sent her while inebriated or how many times I tried to call her.