We laugh as Griffin empties the deck from the box and begins shuffling.
“How about teams?” he asks. “Couple against couple?” He pushes back his chair, patting the spot on his lap. I don’t think twice about abandoning my chair for a more preferable seat.
But something about the jarring movement rocks my brain between my ears.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
I felt great. One-hundred-fifty percent fine. Better than I have in years. Yet when I look at my glass, my perpetually filled glass, I don’t know how many I’ve had. What I do know is champagne is the only beverage that’s passed my lips. Meaning no water, nothing to cut the speed of the alcohol’s effects, which I knew had the potential to be stronger than usual because of my blood thinners. I thought I was handling myself well enough without diluting. But the dehydration. I forgot about the dehydration.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Griffin, attempting to stand from my position on his lap. The words don’t sound right, though. Too slow. Definitely slurred, and spots like sunbursts form in the corners of my vision.
My elbow gives out, and I fall back onto him. I bury my face in his neck and try to articulate the words, my palms sweating against his shoulders. The words don’t come, so I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out any light that threatens to speed the progression.
“Maggie.” Griffin’s voice. I love that voice but right now wish he would just shut up. Quiet. I want quiet.
“Damn it,” he says, but he’s not talking to me. I can tell his head is turned. “She told me one of the reasons she doesn’t drink is because alcohol triggers her migraines. I’m a fucking idiot for not slowing her down.”
“You need to get her back to the hotel.” Another male voice, unaccented. Noah, then. “My mom gets migraines. She needs dark, and quiet, and water. Maggie needs to get some water in her.”
I nod my head against Griffin and find my voice.
“Good idea.” I breathe against him. And then, “I’m so sorry.”
Minutes later I’m propped in Griffin’s arms in the elevator, and then he helps me into a cab. I’m too drunk and too close to losing my lunch all over the cab that I don’t bother to ask why we’re driving two blocks. Because duh. I’m a fucking mess. That much I know.
Somehow I make it back to the room without hurling all over the cab, but the second we’re in the door, I run for the bathroom, slam the door behind me, and make it to the toilet with zero time to spare.
The experience is sobering but in no way a relief.
“Maggie? Are you okay? Please let me help you.”
Griffin’s voice is soft behind the door. He doesn’t knock, and this tiny gesture tugs at my insides…as does a bout of dry heaving.
His voice sounds again, but he’s not talking to me.
“I don’t know what to do. She locked the door.” A pause. “I don’t know how to deal with this.”
Translation: He can’t deal with this. He can’t deal with me.
I flush the toilet when the dry heaving subsides and I’m able to make it to the sink, my eyes open in the pitch darkness. After splashing my face with water yet having no clue what he’ll see when I emerge, I open the door enough let my head and arm through.
They’re all here, sitting in wait on the window bench, but Griffin is at the door seconds after it clicks open.
“I need my bag. I have medication to fix this. You all should go back and enjoy your night.”
Griffin hands me my bag. He must have carried it home because I have no recollection of even putting on my coat, let alone grabbing my things.
“Thank you,” I say, closing the door without another word.
More than once my grandmother had to perform this duty. Even Miles has done it once. Yet despite the state I’m in, I can’t ask for Griffin’s help. As much as everything in his eyes said he wanted to give it, he’s right. He can’t handle this. I can’t handle this. I’m not ready. I can’t get out from under the bullshit like he can. If he stays with me, I’ll only bury him further.
Sliding down the wall opposite the sink, I silently rescind my offer to change the ground rules or to offer him the full deck. The cartridge in my hand lays the foundation for new rules. Or rather, a return to the old.
A clean break. No bad feelings. We walk away. That was the deal for when things got complicated. And I just complicated the fuck out of everything.
I roll up my sleeve and press the injection cartridge to my upper arm. My thumb presses down on the blue button, and the needle enters my skin.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
I pull the cartridge away and unclench my teeth, depositing the medical waste back into its case to dispose of at home.
Then I curl up on the rug and wait, eyes squeezed shut against the throb, and hope they’ll all leave, return to their night and their lives that I got to be a part of for at least a few hours. Tomorrow it’ll be nothing but a memory. Or this time, if I’m lucky, not even that.
Chapter Twenty
Griffin