2016

It was the morning after . . .

Apparently, during the night, someone had set up a drum-kit inside my head and was currently using it as a rehearsal space . . . And they were not good at drumming. I was dehydrated. My throat ached. There was a vile taste in my mouth.

I finally attempted to open my eyes. They felt sticky and sore and, much to my surprise, my vision was perfect.

Which, of course meant I'd slept in my contacts.

Fuck.

I closed my eyes again. I'd deal with that issue in a few minutes, once the room stopped spinning. Right now, it seemed that someone had placed my bed on a fairground waltzer, once again probably in the middle of the night. Presumably the same trickster who was still tunelessly banging their drumsticks against my brain.

I tried to piece my memories of the previous evening together. There had been beer, followed by whisky. Copious amounts of the latter.

Singing. Not my own, luckily for everyone else. There must have been a band playing.

Talking. That had been me, I remembered, cringing. I'm pretty sure some random old man sitting next to me at the bar had been given a not-so-potted history of Iona and Ryan. And then I'd confided in a pretty brunette who I think had actually been initially trying to chat me up, but by the end of my story was urging me to "just tell the girl how you feel". And then the poor guy behind the bar got the story too. . . Oh god, was I remembering wrongly or had he insisted on giving me a lift back to the hotel? I groaned. I must have been in some nick; no wonder I felt so terrible this morning!

Then I remembered I'd dreamt about Iona again last night. She'd helped me into my room, made sure I was okay. She'd even reminded me about taking my contacts out, I grimaced. Even in my dream, I'd been reluctant to do so . . . As if I was worried that, by the time I dealt with such practicalities, she'd be gone and I'd be left alone again.

The memories lingered of her touching my forehead, of me grasping her hand and pulling it down to my cheek. If it hadn't been a dream, that would had been the first physical contact we'd had since prom night, and I couldn't stop shaking at her touch. I would have wished it was real, had dream Ryan (idiot) not then started babbling nonsense, asking why she had ghosted him, and - even more embarrassingly - if she had slept with Angus on Friday night. Dream Iona hadn't in fact slept with Angus, and I remembered my relief before everything faded to black.

I opened my eyes again, even more tentatively than the last time, and gingerly raised myself to a sitting position. The contents of my stomach swirled and I swallowed down the urge to vomit. I was still fully-dressed, I realised, glancing down at my checked shirt and jeans. And trainers . . . dear God, I hadn't even taken my shoes off.

What is this, alcohol amateur hour, Thorne? I asked myself scornfully. My eyes fell on a bottle of water sitting on my bedside table and, twisting the lid off, I thankfully gulped down half of the contents in one go. I remembered Iona putting a bottle of water beside me in my dream.

Shit.

Had my dream actually been real? I cringed at the very thought, and hoped the bottle of water was just a coincidence. Maybe drunk past Ryan had just been looking out for hungover future Ryan. He didn't do that very often, the selfish prick, but it was a possibility!

Feeling distinctly queasy, I slowly made my way to the bathroom and faced the mirror. Yep, as suspected, my eyes were a bit bloodshot, and I found myself wincing as I peeled the contacts off, eyeballs stinging.

After throwing myself in the shower in the hope it might help (it barely made a dent in the hangover), I got dressed, put my glasses on, and slumped back on the bed. I felt like utter shit. The headache hadn't alleviated at all, and the urge to puke still lingered.

Maybe if I ate something it would help? But nothing appealed, apart from the idea of a greasy square sausage in a crisp buttered roll. Perhaps with a potato scone? I wondered if someone in the kitchen could be persuaded to make me one. I wondered if I had the energy to even reach the main building. Eventually the hunger drove me to try, at least.

Of course, Alice and Iona were sitting in the bar when I walked in. I'd been desperately hoping they'd be elsewhere; I knew I looked a mess. I usually prided myself on being better-groomed than this.

But Alice was already shooting an evil smile in my direction, and echoing my own thoughts. "Don't look now, Iona, but Clark Kent has just turned up, and he's clearly a hungover wreck."

"Aw, give me a break, Alice." I dropped into a chair at the table with them, mainly because I wasn't sure I could walk any further for now. "I fell asleep in my contacts."

Reminded of their presence thanks to Alice's "Clark Kent" comment, I self-consciously pushed my glasses higher on my nose, deliberately not looking at Iona. It felt like I'd reverted to the awkward third year high school version of me again. That was all I needed on top of this hangover from hell.

"I did try to remind you about your contacts," Iona said lightly, and I glanced sharply at her. So she had been in my room last night?

And that meant that what I'd assumed was a dream was in fact a real memory.

Shit.

"So you did," I muttered. I knew I was blushing furiously by this point. I glanced away, scrubbing at my stubble. "I wasn't sure if I had imagined you being there."

After mostly keeping my guard up around her since she returned to my life, I'd completely dropped it last night. My drunken behaviour and inebriated ramblings must have totally given the game away. I was absolutely mortified.

I was also even more convinced I was going to be sick now. I excused myself as quickly as possible to head to the kitchen, leaning against the wall and closing my eyes as one of the staff kindly whipped me up my longed-for roll and sausage.

Fuck fuck fuck!!!

I was going to have to clear the air, that was for sure. What if she thought I'd been inappropriate? What if I had been inappropriate and I just didn't remember that part?

I gratefully accepted my food, desperately
hoping it would cure me, and marched back out to try and make things right with her. Thankfully, Alice had disappeared. I really didn't want her around for this.

"Iona?" I asked tentatively. She looked up at me, eyes wide, and I cleared my throat. Trying not to remember her soft hand touching my cheek, wondering if the blurry mental image of me kissing her wrist was also real.

It was probably best I pretended I didn't recall anything, I decided quickly. Safer.

"Listen, I don't really remember what I said last night, so I'm really sorry if I said anything that offended you or was . . . Inappropriate."

Much to my surprise, she smiled at that. And it seemed to be a genuine smile for once. It warmed my soul. "You didn't."

"I talk a lot of crap when I'm pissed," I added quickly. "Which is one of the many reasons why I try not to end up in a state like that." That at least was true.

"Honestly, you were fine."

Relieved, I couldn't help but smile back myself. "Phew." I sighed in relief as I started to walk away.

And then something suddenly clicked in my brain.

If it hadn't been a dream after all . . . It meant that Iona hadn't slept with Angus in real life either. My heart delightedly skipped a beat, and I found myself whirling around to face her again.

"And - just, thanks. For last night. For everything," I blurted impulsively. Somehow hoping she'd understand what I meant. Even though I wasn't entirely sure I knew what I meant.

Her expression, at first confused, seemed to clear as she looked at me. She wasn't smiling anymore, but she nodded slowly. Our eyes had briefly locked together, and this time it felt like there was a flicker of chemistry. Suddenly, that same vibe I used to believe we had back at school had returned, that feeling I'd eventually told myself I must have been imagining all along.

And as I left the bar, the realisation struck me with the force of a wrecking ball - I hadn't been the only one with a guard up these last couple of weeks.

And Iona's guard seemed to have slipped now too.

All this time, I'd thought she didn't care about me. But now I wasn't so sure . . .

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