Sick Like Me (Sick Like #1)

Chapter 6

SIX

I woke with a pounding headache and tired eyes, the taste of red wine still lingering on my tongue. I cringed, throwing myself out of bed before my alarm was to disrupt my peace.

The first thing I did was rush to the upstairs bathroom—a humble sized room with just a sink and a toilet—and grabbed my toothbrush from the sink to scrub my teeth, mouth and tongue to get rid of the taste.

I knew with the two bottles of wine I had drank the night before that my hangover was going to be a slow burn, the headache forming slowly throughout the day until it would become a pounding mess behind my eyes that begged for me to drink a ton of water and eat whatever foods I could get my hands on before my body would beg for a restless sleep.

As I finished brushing my teeth, I felt my stomach gurgle and in response, I slammed a hand over my mouth in hopes of that miraculously making me feel better. I never got sick after drinking usually, but after all the pasta I ate the previous night, I didn’t doubt if my body wanted to get rid of everything just to start fresh again.

I turned my wrist towards myself once I was sure I wasn’t about to throw up and checked the time. It revealed I was awake two hours earlier than I needed to be, but with how I was feeling there was no way I was going to be able to go back to sleep.

I let out a sigh as I left the bathroom and made my way downstairs. I went ahead with my usual routine of making coffee, then I left my living room to stand in the downstairs hallway. I stared at the purple curtain to my art room, the front room, and debated if I should enter or not.

I sucked in a breath and allowed my legs to take me where they wanted. I expected them to turn me back into my main living room, but I was surprised when I found myself pushing the curtain aside to enter the front room.

The blinds were closed, with the grey black out curtains having been left open and forgotten about the last time I had been in there.

Should anyone have driven past my house in recent weeks at varying times, they would have seen the closed blinds permanently and probably thought the house was abandoned, or that I hated light.

Of course that was far from the truth, at least for the most part.

I had been doing some colouring in that room during night the last time I was in there, and so I closed the blinds to stop any lights flashing in from cars passing by. The rest of the blinds around my house were wide open–more often than not left open even during the nights.

I grabbed the top of my desk chair and pulled it out to sit in it, then I placed my coffee on the coaster that sat on my desk. My fingers danced along the paper of the book that had been left often, and I found the smoothness of the paper comforting, a feeling I had missed without even knowing it.

I moved my hand to flip the page to a fresh drawing, one I had drawn months ago. It had been untainted by colour, but it begged to be brought to life .

I looked to the box of coloured pens sat in drawers at the end of my desk, colour coded. I looked back at the drawing of the rose bush, wondering if I was in the mood to do some colouring in.

Art was my solace, my time away from my brain. I couldn’t bring myself to pick up a pen and drawer, or a canvas and paint the next serene garden landscape that my mother would want to hang on her living room wall.

I sucked in a breath, my fingers itching to colour in the roses at least. So I reached across the desk and opened both bottom drawers of the acrylic drawers that housed my colours. My fingers danced from one drawer to the other. Yellow or red.

Yellow or red .

They were both very different colours and would give different vibes to the overall piece once complete, I contemplated. But my thinking ceased when my phone buzzed from on top of my desk beside my arm.

Usually I hated interruptions when I was in my art room, but this one was welcomed. I watched the notification to reveal Peyton was wide awake and filmed a little ‘get ready with me’ before the long drive to the caravan park. I watched each video, smiling to myself as she talked about nothing and everything all at once.

I swiped off the last video and typed a short response, wishing her a safe drive and a great time away. I knew we would still talk every day, but at least she couldn’t say I never wished her a fun time.

I then noticed I had missed a message from Owen the night before, and so I opened his message to reveal he had asked me what was my favourite type of food. I typed back one word, Italian . I knew it made my response seem dry, but I was tired and in no mood to write a shitty paragraph about food when I was sure I would throw up if I ever saw twirly pasta again.

My stomach grumbled, revealing that instead of throwing up, it wanted food. So I got up, not bothering to close the drawers atop my desk, before I walked back through my house to the kitchen.

A loaf of seeded bread sat on the counter for me, beside the toaster. So I picked up the bag and untwisted the plastic before I pulled out two slices. I plopped them into the toaster and then I closed the bag back up before I reached in to the cupboard under me. I pulled out a plate and then slammed it on the counter, much more aggressive than I intended. The loud noise made me flinch as I turned to take a few steps to the fridge to get the butter.

Once everything was in place and the toast had popped out a golden brown colour, I finished with layering a thin coat of butter on each slice before I picked one up and took the biggest bite my mouth would allow.

I chewed slowly, then hummed as the taste hit my tongue. God, seeded bread tasted so fucking good . I turned so my back was against the counter, my eyes staring through my living room doorway to the wall of family photos. I smiled to myself, making a mental note that I had to update Peyton and Nova’s photos.

I finished my breakfast, then I decided I may as well as change into my work clothes. So I walked to my utility room where my tumble dryer sat and opened it, revealing my recently washed work clothes that I made no effort to take out and put away.

I stared at the crumpled white shirt as I held it up and sighed. I never bothered to iron it, and work never chastised me for it thankfully. I held the shirt in one hand, then I dug through the drum of the tumble dryer until I found a plain white bra.

Putting a bra on with one hand was harder than I thought it would be. I wasn’t sure how easy or hard I thought it would be, really. But it was certainly an Olympic sport in itself as I tried my best to hold my shirt up so as not to wrinkle it more than it already was .

Once my bra was secured into place, I then slipped the shirt on and cringed at the snug fit to my stomach. The shirts were company provided, the logo stitched onto the chest for all to see. Then once that looked good enough, I dug through my tumble dryer once again for the final pieces of my clothing, new underwear and a skirt.

I opted for my black pencil skirt that sat to my mid calf, not too long but more than long enough so that I didn’t have to worry about it rising too high and revealing too much.

Once I was confident in my choice, I went back to the living room and picked up the hairbrush I left lazing on my coffee table. I brushed my knotted strands until the brush could glide through smoothly, despite my hair becoming a frizzy mess.

I walked back to my art room, finally closing the drawers so I could pretend I was being mature and considerate of my art supplies. I picked up my phone, my usual dating apps asking me to ‘make more matches’.

I sighed as I brought my phone with me to the kitchen to make myself a second coffee. I stood, waiting for the machine to finish pouring out hot water which would be accompanied by beeping.

I scrolled through my phone, swiping left and right on the screen. More left than right, admittedly.

Then like a ghost, an old face appeared on my screen with an all too familiar name. He was older in the photos on this profile compared to what I remembered. He looked like he had been working out, put some weight on. He still looked good, of course.

But it was the green-grey eyes that stared back at me in a haunting reminder that caused my world to shift on its axis.

I had cancelled my subscription to the app so I had no way to know if he had liked me too, until I chose to swipe right— if I chose to swipe right. Would he even remember me? I doubted it.

I chewed my lip, the beeping from my coffee machine not once diverting my attention. I kept my thumb on the screen, daring it to move faintly between right and left.

“What should I do?” I asked myself in a whisper. “What should I do…”

And then I thought fuck it, why not ? Worst comes to worse, we won’t match. If we do match, I doubted he would even reply.

So I did it, I let my thumb swipe right on the man. The screen turned green and revealed we had matched. I let out a gasp, placing my phone screen down onto the counter. I then picked up my coffee and took a gulp, not caring how the hot liquid momentarily burned my throat.

I let out a noise that sounded close to a gasp mixed with a laugh, then I picked my phone back up, the screen still green from the confirmation of the match.

I dared to click on his profile once again. Oh, surprise surprise, he wasn’t looking for a relationship but he ‘wanted to build a connection with someone’. I sighed, debating leaving the app at that—accepting that we had matched and that we would never talk again.

But a part of me was curious, both to see if he would reply, and to see if he even remembered me. So I typed into the message bar a small and simple greeting I sent all men when I first matched with them.

Me: Hey, how’s it going? :)

I regretted it the second I sent it, but I had no time to take it back. So instead I locked my phone and placed it into my skirt pocket before I walked to my coat rack hanging over the back of my living room door. I grabbed my black balloon sleeve cardigan and slipped it on, then I placed my work coat on top of it.

I checked the time on my phone, and while it was still earlier than I would usually leave, I decided I may as well as make the most of my time. So I grabbed my bag and walked to my front door with my keys waiting in the door for me .

I unlocked, then locked the door once I was outside. I then made my way to my car, climbing in with the music humming softly from the speakers of the car when I turned the ignition on—the volume saved from the night before.

The screen on my radio lit up, revealing I had a new message on my dating app.

YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM DAKOTA.

I felt my stomach drop. I itched to open it, but I forced some self perseverance as I threw my bag with my phone secure inside in the passenger footwell. I then began the drive to work, taking the longer routes to kill time so I wouldn’t arrive too early.

But the whole time I drove, I felt a distraction clawing at the back of my mind, begging me to open my phone. It was hard to push the voice away, but I managed it for the twenty minute drive to work.

The second I turned the engine to my car off, I pounced for my bag and held it in a tight grasp as I climbed out of the car. I made my way to the doors of my building and then I followed down corridors until I got to my office, one large room with several desks which were pushed together so we could better work—gossip— as a team.

For once in his life, Stefan was earlier than I. As I slammed into my seat, I turned to him with red cheeks and out of breath. “Butty, do I have gossip for you.”

At the mention of gossip, his eyes lit up with a little mischievous sparkle. “Do you have another date?” He asked, excited at the prospect of more information for him to spread around and give his unsolicited advice on.

“No, I don’t have a date. But it is still some drama for you to chew into at least,” I replied, giving him a little eyebrow wag before I finally pulled my phone out of my pocket to read the message I had received.

“Oh, is it about that hottie in finance? What about him?” Then Stefan dramatically gasped. “Is he engaged and acting like a little cheating whore?”

I laughed and rolled my eyes, my thumb hesitant to open the message from Kota. But as Stefan slammed his hand on my table dramatically and made me jump, my thumb pressed into the screen and I was met with the response of the one simple word.

Dakota: Hello

I felt like the air had been sucked out of my lungs. It seemed as if he didn’t remember me with his cavalier response. He must have forgotten all about me. I wouldn’t blame him. I just guess he had more of an effect on me than I had on him.

I stared at my screen for several seconds, which only irritated Stefan more. He began to tap his fingers briskly against my desk. “Butty, come on. You can’t tell me you have gossip and then suddenly stop talking seconds after.”

I let my thumbs take control as they typed a hurried response, just asking how he was doing. Then I locked my screen and threw my phone into the top drawer of my desk before I turned to Stefan and gave him my full attention.

“Sorry about that. Where was I? Oh, right, I have gossip for you,” But that time my voice sounded much less enthusiastic than it had previously. The thought that he didn’t remember me stung. He probably forgot me within the day of me ceasing contact. I wouldn’t blame him, he didn’t owe it to me to remember me. I was just someone who remembered their addictions in the form of humans.

“I rematched with a man on my app who I used to talk to a few years ago,” I said, but the sparkle in my tone was gone.

Stefan frowned. “Yeah? Why do you sound so upset by that fact? ”

I forced a smile and shook my head. “Upset? No, he was, and still is, fine as fuck. He doesn’t want a relationship though.”

Stefan pressed his teeth together and sucked in dramatically. “Well, no one said you couldn’t have some fun by hooking up with men. We all love a good snog story at the pub after some drinks.”

I laughed, shaking my head. I felt a vibration on my wrist from my watch which I chose to ignore, wondering if it was Kota Vernon responding but not wanting to be disappointed should the notification be from something else.

“He probably wouldn’t accept a date invite that would end in a quick fuck,” I began, a little louder than I intended. My eyes scanned the room, praying my manager wasn’t nearby to scold me for swearing. When I realised I was safe, I let out a sigh and then continued. “Hook up, I mean. He would probably just want a one night stand and no dates beforehand or anything.”

Stefan rolled his eyes and tutted. “Only hook up with men who take you to nice restaurants first and they pay for the meal, got it?” He wagged his finger at me, trying to give me a poor attempt at dating advice.

“You do realise I’m older than you, right?” I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’ve probably been on more dates this last year than you have in your whole life.”

Stefan shrugged with one shoulder. “Maybe so, but only one of us is in a long term relationship right now. And I can tell you that it isn’t you,” He sassed, then clicked his fingers.

I let out a laugh, lifting one of my hands to hide behind.

At the action, Stefan frowned. “Why do you do that?” He asked.

I dropped my hand and tilted my head. “Do what?” I asked, confused.

“You hide your face when you laugh. Why do you do that?” He pushed.

I shrugged and shook my head, not even realising it was a habit I had, bare in mind that it was something other people noticed. “I didn’t even realise. I have no idea. I guess it’s something I’ve always done. Maybe it’s from the years I used to have braces and wanted to hide them?”

I tried to make up a theory to explain the case, but I knew there was another answer, one that was too dark and fearful to reveal to Stefan.

And it was a simple one.

I hated how I looked, and so I believed no one else really liked it—looking at me.

The less they saw of me, the better , a nasty thought from my teenage years which still haunted me years later into my adulthood taunted me more often than not.

“Well, you shouldn’t. You have a nice smile,” Stefan offered before he turned back to his mug of tea, almost as pale as the colour of milk, and sipped.

I cringed and shook my head. “Butty, if you’re going to drink tea at least let the tea bag brew a bit. You’re just drinking hot water with a ton of milk in it.”

One of my other coworkers who often dished out tea and coffee to everyone else on the team came out of the break room with my mug and her own. She overheard my comment and agreed as she placed my mug of strong tea with a dash of milk and two sugars on the coaster that sat on my desk.

“I’ve been telling him for weeks,” She tutted, to which Stefan threw up his middle finger to the both of us which ended in us laughing before we decided to finally log our computers in and begin with the work tasks for the day.