Chapter 3
now i think i finally understand,
is it in your genes? i don’t know,
but i’ll soon find out, that’s for sure
- Your Woman, White Town
*
Nat shifts, groaning, dragged unwillingly into the morning. Her head is pounding. Her mouth’s gone to cotton. And her body—it’s too heavy. It moves as if filtered through a thick syrup, slow and drowsy.
After a second attempt, she gives up on trying to move at all. She knows better. She doubts she’ll hurl, but it’s better not to tempt fate. The whole team had undone themselves, getting blitzed in honor of their big win. She remembers nodding along to some TLC song, patting Kevyn’s back as he coughed through half a cigarette, bitching with Shauna about something, taking shots with… somebody. The night blurred.
She barely remembers leaving, much less making the trip to Lottie’s. There’d been streetlights. A chill. A lot of darkness. And then she was holed up in Lottie’s room, smoking through her stash.
How do you feel about a key?
Trying to sort it all out—the easy conversation, the smoking, the key—only worsens her headache. She likes Lottie’s house. She likes living in it. It’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than her own, and she doesn’t have to walk on eggshells around anybody. But she doesn’t know why the invitation to stay’s been offered for so long, so willingly. She figures Lottie must have some ulterior motive, except there doesn’t seem to be one. Lottie could pity her, see this as charity in some way—except Lottie has never looked at her like that, like she’s beneath her. All Lottie’s ever done is be nice. Nat doesn’t know what to do with that.
Though, she does know brooding about it will do fuck all.
Sighing, she gets two feet on the ground and stands up. All the pain sloshes from one side to the other, like a water bottle being spilled. She clenches her teeth together, ignores it. The whole ordeal would go over better with another drink.
“Is that coffee?”
Nat finds Lottie in the kitchen, clutching a mug of something with two hands. Her skin looks clean and a bit rosy, as if freshly showered. Nat wonders how long she’s been up.
Lottie shakes her head. ”No, tea.”
Nat gets to pouring a cup. Slowly. Speed seems like a recipe for nausea. “How do you not look like shit right now?”
”I didn’t drink much.” Lottie takes a small, pointed sip of her tea. “Moderation.”
”Right.” Nat snorts, amused. That type of jab would annoy her coming from anyone else, but from Lottie it feels alright. “That didn’t sound not pointed at me.”
Lottie just smiles from behind the rim of her mug.
Nat finishes up with the kettle and sets it aside. Sits. Sips. The flavor is sharp and distinct, like peppermint.
The first couple swallows warm her chest. She drinks deeply, in no hurry. In the corner of her eye, she can see Lottie’s fingers shifting, long and deft.
”Did you sleep alright?” Lottie asks.
”Yeah.” Nat nods, grateful to have something to talk about. “I conked right out after…”
”Me, too.”
Nat swallows. Again. Being sober brings on a stark, uncomfortable awareness of the world—of the light, of the room, of her own existence. She’s conscious of every little thing, from her breath to her blinking pattern. It’s tiresome.
”I’m not gonna hold you to that, by the way.” She throws out, almost randomly. “The key. I doubt you want me running in and out of your house.”
Lottie lifts her shoulders—a small shrug. “Beats having to get the door for you every time.”
”That’s not—“ Nat presses her lips together, failing to find the words. “Surely you’ve got better things to do with your time.”
”No, not really.”
”Not really.”
”I don’t mind it.” Lottie explains. “I like having someone around, and you’re better company than half the team.”
Nat struggles over a response. That doesn’t make sense. “So, your parents are cool with you turning your home into a halfway house for just anybody?”
”Not for just anybody.” Lottie says, steadily. “For you.”
It all comes out of her mouth so easily. I like you here, so stay. Lottie’s stare is calm, not a hint of hesitation in it. Nothing in Nat’s life has ever been so simple. She can’t remember a time when she wasn’t an intrusion, taking up too much space. Forcing herself in places that didn’t want her.
She feels strange being here, looking at Lottie. At the slight rise and fall of her chest, the curve of her nose, the fingers curled snugly around her mug. Her eyes. The line of her throat, still marked a blotted purple by some guy—blonde or brunette, tall or short, muscular or thin. Nat can’t throw together an image. She’s not sure why she tries.
”Okay, well, my head’s killing me.” She slides off the chair, decisively. “Do you have any painkillers?”
”Upstairs, in the bathroom.” Lottie nods upwards. “Lightweight.”
Something twitches inside of Nat. Something foreign.
”Ouch.” She grumbles, catching Lottie’s smile—small, genuine—just before she slips out.
The feeling’s drifted by the time she reaches the top of the stairs. She pulls the door open and hits the lights, squinting. It’s much brighter up here than it was downstairs. “Fucking hell…”
Nat pieces through the medicine cabinet groggily. There’s Tylenol on the top shelf. She swallows two dry, then sets it back down. The cabinet’s pretty clogged, with toothbrushes and cotton swabs and pill bottles all lined up. Nat picks one up and reads the label. She’s not going to steal… but she’s curious. This is real shit. Some kind of blue and white pill with a name too long to pronounce, addressed to Charlotte Matthews.
“Find it?” Lottie calls from downstairs.
“Yeah.” Nat gives the bottle one last look before setting it back in place. “I’ve got it.”