The Lies That Bind

12: Wake Me Up When November Ends

Cooper wanted to die.

Not actually die. More like, drown-himself-in-a-tub-of-gatorade die. Anything to cure the pounding in his head.

It feels like there's a little elf tap dancing around in my skull.

Cooper groaned as he sat upright, disoriented. He'd been expecting to wake to the cool, comforting darkness of his own bedroom. Not...the couch?

He shielded his eyes against the sunlight streaming through the living room window—and then shivered as the blanket he'd been wrapped in fell away, exposing his skin to the frigid morning air.

"Vincent and his fucking AC," he muttered, scrubbing his eyes with his fists. When he mustered the strength to open them again—and even then, just barely—he spotted a cup of water on the table, untouched, and though he couldn't say why, there was something about that innocuous little cup that gave him pause.

And he remembered.

Oh, no. Oh, f—

"How are we feeling this morning?"

Cooper nearly jumped out of his skin as Calla appeared in the doorway—to his bedroom. All he could think to say in his addled, dehydrated state was, "Who said you could sleep in my bed?" 

Why are you here? How are you here? What's happening? And where the hell are my clothes? Those questions he kept firmly locked behind his teeth. He had a hazy recollection of how last night had gone; without Vincent to keep him company, the silence of their apartment had been deafening, and he'd been left with little more than the obsessive turning of his thoughts and the creeping doubt that he'd made a terrible mistake with Lauren and, because of that, he'd inevitably spend the rest of his life alone. That was when he'd gone for the wine...

"You did, genius," Calla said, interrupting his panicked thoughts. She stretched her arms above her head, the oversized shirt she wore riding up her thighs. Cooper quickly looked away. "God, I feel amazing."

"I hate you. With every fiber of my being, I hate you." He downed the water in one go and, with a pained groan, flopped back onto the couch. "Wake me up when November ends."

She approached on silent feet and stood over him, her hair a wild tangle around her face. "Or you could stop being a little bitch boy and we could go get some greasy breakfast to cure that hangover of yours."

He sat up. "I'm sold."

Grinning, she retreated to the bedroom to change, warning Cooper not to come in or else, which he thought was rather bold, given it was his bedroom and who was she to tell him where he could and could not go in his own goddamn apartment, but then she was dressed and he had nothing left to complain about—except for the headache. The headache...

Cooper hopped into a lukewarm shower and towel-dried his hair, a decision he quickly regretted when they stepped outside, shivering as they burst out into the cold.

"You're going to freeze to death," Calla warned him as he stripped off his hoodie, teeth chattering. But the cold overrode the pain in his head and the roiling nausea in his gut, and really, that was all he could ask for.

"It's this, or vomit in the bushes." Cooper threw his hoodie over his shoulder. "Choose your fighter."

Calla shuddered and pulled her hands into the sleeves of her sweater. "It's your fault. You drank nearly two bottles of wine."

"Nearly two?"

"You yakked before you could get through the second."

"Lame."