Fuck me. I am never drinking again.
Not bothering to zip my pants, I lean one hip against the ornate marble counter, grab the semi-familiar toothbrush in the cup by the sink, and scrub my mouth until frothy paste is spilling out. Spit. Rinse. Wipe with towel. Wipe vomit off pec with towel. Throw towel on floor. Check reflection in—
Several square notes are stuck to the mirror—words of affirmation just like the ones I saw in Tahegin’s bag in the hotel room last Saturday. Okay, so he has these with him at away games and brings them home to put them on the mirror in his bathroom.
His bathroom.
A throat clears behind me. “It was time for a new toothbrush anyway,” Tahegin quips.
I meet his eyes in the mirror, then spin around to face him. “Shit. I didn’t realize I was in your room, not the guest room.”
He takes a bite of a delicious-looking croissant sandwich, and his gaze flicks down my front before coming back up. “Breakfast and a show?”
Following the path his eyes took, I realize I left my pants unbuttoned and unzipped, and my morning wood has finally realized what time it is. My waistband is halfway down my ass and hips, only being held up by the tent in the front. Tahegin has a clear view of my trimmed mound and veiny root. “Sorry,” I croak, pure gravel, and reach down to close my pants.
“I’m not complaining,” Tahegin jokes and takes a sip of the coffee in his hand. He sets the croissant on top of the mug, rests his shoulder against the doorjamb, and grins in my direction. “How are you feeling?”
I rub my aching eyes. “Like I drank too much.”
“Actually, you didn’t drink that much. It seems you’re just a lightweight.”
“Hmph.” The thing is, he’s probably right. Since socializing isn’t really my thing, I never spent a lot of time drinking in college. I only drank when Micah practically forced me, and even then, it was usually beer. “Next time, I’ll drive. You can drink with your friends.”
“Oh, no worries. We’ll just work on your tolerance. Also, they’re your friends, too.”
Is he . . . deflecting?
“I made coffee and breakfast. Come downstairs when you’re ready.” He disappears suspiciously fast, and I conclude that, yes, he is trying to avoid talking about something.
My gaze catches on the notes on the mirror, specifically on the one mentioning his pills. Maybe he didn’t want me asking about the notes or the meds. Although I’m definitely curious, I won’t ask because it is a personal matter, which I respect. He will tell me about it if he ever wants to.
Tahegin has thought of everything—pretty sure he is the reason the curtains were closed and the trash can, which is now empty, was poised perfectly at the bedside—and I find my duffle bag in the oversized chair in the corner of his bedroom. Digging through it, I quickly discover that when I packed for this weekend, I didn’t plan on needing extra clothes. I refuse to wear the same pair of underwear for more than a day, and my jeans smell like I slept on top of a bar. So, I make myself familiar with his closet, grab what I think will fit, and take advantage of his ridiculously oversized shower with all three of its showerheads. Once I no longer reek of vomit and booze, I dress and head downstairs to find Tahegin on the back patio, feet propped up while he scrolls on his phone. The sun is barely over the skyline, which means it is exactly too-damn-early o’clock.
“I would have bagged the trash and brought it down,” I tell him as I sink into a lounger on the opposite side of the table from him.
He smiles at me, genuine as always, blue eyes sparkling in the morning light. “No worries, Rix. Seriously. I have had my fair share of bad mornings, and the least helpful thing is having to clean up puke.”
“At least it wasn’t applesauce, right?” I joke.
That smile drops immediately, and Tahegin’s bronze face turns a sickly green.
I frantically hold my hands out, not knowing how to help. “Oh, God, I’m sorry! It was meant to be a joke, but I wasn’t thinking. I am a horrible friend, I know. Fuck, I’m the worst. Do you want to get me back? Laugh at me for something?” What the hell am I doing? I have never stressed like this with Micah. “My birthmark? Here, look.” I pull back my damp hair and show him my left ear, where a pencil eraser-sized mark the color of a coffee stain on paper mars my flesh. “My mom always said that was God telling her where to pinch me when I was bad, which was—” I break off abruptly.
What the fuck am I saying? I haven’t spoken a word about my mother in years, but now I’m bringing her up completely unprompted. Something has to be wrong with me. Like, seriously wrong. Like, call an ambulance wrong, because—
“—your birthmark?”
I realize I missed everything Tahegin just said. Didn’t even know he was talking. My brain was being too loud. “What?”
He points at my ear, though the mark is covered again by my hair. “That is your embarrassing birthmark? It’s a freckle, man. Here I was thinking you had a big ol’ mole or something.”
“It is embarrassing,” I defend, putting my hand over the offending ear.
“It’s not raised or anything. There isn’t even a hair growing in the center. It’s literally just a color change on your skin.” He stares at me, lips parted, a look of disbelief on his face.
“Whatever,” I grumble.
The patio falls into silence as I pick at breakfast and sip coffee. I compliment his cooking; he offers me headache medicine. It’s all very cordial. And hella awkward.
“Do you want to talk about her?” he asks softly after studying me for a few minutes.
I snort under my breath. “Fuck no.”
Tahegin ducks his head, trying to meet my downcast gaze. “Not even a good memory you want to share?”
Draining the rest of my coffee, I suck on my teeth. “If I had a good one to share, T, I’d share it with you. Trust me when I say there isn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounds like he means it, too.
“Don’t be. Sorry doesn’t change the past.”
“Fuck,” Tahegin hisses under his breath. “How is it that I always manage to fuck up with you?”
His words make me pause. He thinks he always fucks up with me? I’m the one who is always messing up. “No, T.” I shake my head. “I’m always messing up around you.”
“What?”
We meet each other’s eyes, mirroring shared confusion.
