Chasing Freedom

XVII

Mira stumbled, half-blinded by the agony pulsing in her skull and the light streaming through the windows. Grateful she knew the route by muscle memory, she threw the door open, rushing past the shower. Collapsing by the toilet, she was sure she'd have bruises later with how hard she landed on the tile. Gasping for breath, she emptied to contents of her stomach in violent heaves that never seemed to end.

There was a knock at the door, despite it being open. "Mira? Are you alright?"

"Peachy," she muttered, her voice hoarse. Seconds before, she bent over again, upheaving.

She heard his footsteps approached. Hands gathered her hair out of her face as he crouched next to her. If the smell bothered him, he didn't show it. "Get it all out. Trust me."

It felt like she'd turned her body inside out by the time she stopped throwing up. Myles was the one to flush the toilet, letting go of her hair. "Better?" he asked, voice low.

"No," grumbled Mira under her breath, as she sat back on her knees. She rubbed her forehead like it would erase the spikes of agony there. "How are you so perky?"

Perky wasn't necessarily the right word for it. Perfect seemed more apt, effortlessly so. He was in loose running short and fitted grey t-shirt, not the alcohol-clinging clothes he'd worn last night—unlike Mira. His weren't bloodshot. Even his hair, which she'd noticed had started to grow out was sitting in place.

"I didn't drink nearly as much as you did, Mira."

In her peripheral vision, she watched Myles reach behind him into the vanity drawer. He stood to reach the tap, running a washcloth under the water before handing it back to her. Mira took it gratefully, patting the material over her face, the coolness a welcome wake up.

"I need a shower," she said aloud, as if it would force her body into moving. "I smell like alcohol."

As a matter of fact, she could still taste alcohol.

"Do you need me to stay?"

Mira froze, the cloth on her cheek, before forced herself to move her arm once more. She felt nausea that had nothing to with her hangover. Myles was only asking out of concern, in case she was stupid enough to pass out. And that was the problem. She wanted him to find her attractive. She wanted the innuendo to be real; for it to be an excuse simply so he could watch.

She wanted... something that wasn't hers to have. Letting her guard down, letting him in, would only hurt them both.

She couldn't afford to risk it.

Not now.

Not ever.

Too bad she'd already begun to let it happen. Each day that passed around Myles side—every new side of him that was revealed—broke down her walls that much further and made this all so much harder.

"I'll call out if I get dizzy," Mira said. "Promise."

*

When she came out of her room half an hour later, dressed in fleece sweats and a matching top, Myles was nowhere in sight. Figuring he'd gone outside or to the basement, Mira made her way to the living room, settling on the couch on her side. The blinds had been drawn over, blocking out the glare of the sun.

"Mira?"

Slowly, she sat up, peering over the back of the cushions. Myles was coming through the partition wall, a mug in his left hand. The smell of it was a bitter tang that had her raising an eyebrow.