Damsel Under Stress (Page 96)

A long, hot shower didn’t do as much to clear my head as I hoped. A large part of my brain was still out cold and the other part was having to lug it around like deadweight. My balance had improved some, so navigating the path back to the bedroom wasn’t quite as difficult as the walk to the bathroom had been. I threw on a sweat suit, and then I ventured out into the living room. I wasn’t yet sure I wanted to know what had happened during all those missing hours, but I was sure my roommates would tell me.

“It lives,” Marcia said drily from her seat at the dining table when I shuffled in. Gemma glanced up from the fashion magazine she was reading with a grunt.

“Yeah, it lives. More or less,” I said, sitting very carefully on the sofa to make sure it was where I thought it was. I felt like I had a skewed perception of the world, as though everything was just a bit off from where it seemed to me to be. I noticed as I sat down that one of my red stilettos lay on the floor in front of the door. There was no sign of the other one. Maybe Prince Charming had snagged it when I lost it while fleeing the ball and he’d use it to find me again. “Would anyone mind filling me in on what happened after midnight? ’Cause I’m drawing a blank.”

“Oh, it’s quite the saga,” Gemma said. “I’m not sure we have time to tell the whole story.”

“How about we start with what should be the easy part: How did I end up at home and in bed?”

Marcia got up from the table and came over to stand in front of me. “When things got out of hand at the party, Owen and Philip dragged you out of there. Owen called for a car to drive us home. Owen and Philip got you up the stairs between them, and then Gemma and I threw you in bed.”

I nodded. “Okay. That makes sense. Well, the coming home part does. But what do you mean by things getting out of hand?”

“Ha!” Gemma’s response was somewhere between a snort and a laugh.

“Come on, y’all. What happened? I’m missing a lot of time here, and I don’t know why. I remember kissing Owen at midnight, and after that everything is a big blank.”

“Let’s just say I never had you pegged as a mean drunk.” Marcia tossed her hair, which still held some of the Marilyn curl, and stalked off to the kitchen.

“But I wasn’t drunk,” I protested. “I had one cup of punch, which seemed pretty watered-down even to me, and then a glass of champagne at midnight, and I don’t remember drinking all of that.”

“I hope you were drunk,” Gemma snapped. “Because if you weren’t and you were acting that way, well, you aren’t the person we thought you were.”

“What did I do?”

“You got nasty. You said some really mean things to us and to Owen, and then after you told him how pathetic he was as a boyfriend, you came on to every other man in the place—especially those who were there with dates.”

I moaned and buried my face in my hands. I’d only ever been truly drunk a few times in my life, and even then, never to the point of passing out, so it was hard for me to compare the experience. Still, it seemed like I should remember more than a couple of drinks if I’d had enough to pass out. Or was it like a concussion, where sometimes you forgot the whole day, even the time before you got conked on the head?

“What did I say to y’all?” My voice came out muffled from behind my hands.

“For one thing,” Marcia said, “you told everyone about me breaking up with Jeff. How did you put it? Oh yeah, ‘Like she thinks she’s too good for him.’”

Still with my face behind my hands, I said, “You know that’s not what I think. I told you that.”

“Yeah, and I also recall asking you not to tell anyone.”

I looked up to see her sitting once more at the kitchen table, a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. My mouth watered at the sight. Coffee, that was what I needed. If I got some caffeine into my system I was sure I’d be able to think straight. And would it have killed Marcia to offer me a cup while she was up? I recalled having brought many a cup of coffee to her when she was in a similar state.

“I don’t remember saying that, honest. I didn’t mean to blab.”

“What was the big secret, anyway?” Gemma asked. “Why didn’t you want me to know?”

“It’s my business, isn’t it?”

While Marcia and Gemma argued, I eased myself off the sofa and aimed for the kitchen, hoping there was still coffee in the pot. I nearly wept with joy when I saw that there were at least two cups left. I poured half a cup for myself, added some sugar and milk, then took a cautious sip. One thing I remembered from the few hangovers I’d experienced was such a strong nausea that the thought of food or drink made my stomach churn. But my stomach felt fine. I was able to drink the whole cup, and soon my head felt a lot clearer, even if the headache hadn’t eased at all. Actually, it was even worse.