Tide Changer

Six

I wasn't a big drinker. Once in a while, I'd go out with Payton and have a few cocktails, never enough to regret it the next day. And certainly never enough to have a pulsing, immobilizing headache.

Now each heartbeat echoed in my temples. The light made my eyes ache, so I pulled a blanket over myself and lay still.

Yesterday's events took shape in my memory little by little. First, dinner. Then my bitterness when I saw happy couples and realized how miserable I was in my so-called relationship. After that, the backyard drinking and Rys coming to check on me.

And then, nothing. How did I make it to my bedroom? I was still wearing my dress, but I was barefoot. Rys must've helped me. My face burned from shame as I wondered what he must've thought. I peeked from under the blanket, but he wasn't in the sunlit room, much to my dignity's relief.

If only I knew what kind of a drunk I was. Did I spill all my secrets? Did I tell him about Brock?

I willed my brain to fall back asleep so I could pretend none of that happened, but I was awake and alert, and the old clock on the wall opposite my bed told me I slept well past lunchtime.

With effort, I sat, clutching my head. Then I dragged my feet to the bathroom and undressed at a snail's pace.

The hot shower brought me back to life. Fifteen minutes later, I toweled off and slipped into a pink sundress. As I entered the kitchen to have coffee and enough water to rid my body of the effects of alcohol, I spotted a brown bag on the table with a yellow post-it note stuck to it. I picked it up.

Neat handwriting sprawled across the paper.

Please, eat this and hydrate.

Sincerely,

The panties-dangler

On a scale from one to ten, my mortification level was a solid one hundred. Rys was nothing but nice to me, and I called him names on top of acting like a fool.

He saw me at my worst and bought me the best-looking chocolate muffin I'd laid my eyes on.

Brock would never.

***

I hid in the house until late in the afternoon, terrified of setting foot in the backyard where Rys could see me. But we didn't exchange numbers, and thanking him for taking care of me last night and buying me breakfast this morning was the least I could do — the least a sensible, mature person could do. Even if there was a solid chance he'd written Lyra Walton on top of the list of people he'd rather avoid.

Not a single cloud marred the endlessly blue sky, and tree branches barely moved compared to yesterday. I brushed my hair once more, grabbed my raffia basket bag and sunglasses, and left the house.

Unsure of whether Rys would accept an apology dinner, I settled on something less risky — I went to the bakery he'd shown me and bought a white chocolate raspberry cheesecake.

If he closed the door in my face, I'd leave the dessert and go home. Although the mental pep talk I gave myself on the way to his place didn't quell my nerves, the plan gave me confidence that I wouldn't stand frozen to the spot.

A black Tesla was parked in Rys's driveway. That seemed like something he'd drive. I remembered him telling me his degree had to do with the environment. Hopefully, the car was his, and he didn't have company.

By the time I'd climbed the three steps to his porch, my hands were clammy. I wiped them on the skirt of my dress and pressed the doorbell.

Low sounds of music hummed through the walls. I stepped back in time for the front door to open.