My body was weightless and numb, like a giant cloud floating through air. I opened my eyes, staring at the mirrored panels surrounding the square box that contained me. An elevator perhaps. Finch cradled me in his arms, which made me feel stupid and weak.
He looked down, gave me a sarcastic grin, and said, “After I get you back to the room, I’ll get some ice for your jaw.”
I nodded. At least I thought I nodded. My head was pounding too hard to be sure. “You can put me down now. I’m fine.”
Instead of complying with my request, he clutched me even tighter. “You might think you’re fine, but you’re not. A minute ago, you slapped my ass, said a few things I won’t repeat.”
No, I didn’t. Did I?
I rubbed a hand over my face, winced at the pain. “My chin hurts.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“The guy I was talking to at the bar hit me, and then poof, you were there.”
He laughed.
“You got a standing O from everyone in the bar when you stood back up. You remember that?”
I shook my head. I remembered landing on the floor, remembered Finch’s fist smacking Jordan’s face, Jordan going down. Everything else was a blur, except for a slight memory of me muttering something to Finch about him being the horse and me being the rider. The ass-slap assertion was starting to make sense.
I didn’t need a rock to hide under.
I needed a crater.
“How did you ... I mean, I know I told you I was going to the bar downstairs. I even assumed you’d follow me. But I didn’t see you come in.”
“That was the point.”
“How long were you there?” I asked.
“The entire time.”
“You never came over to talk to me. Why not?”
“I figured whatever’s going on with you today, you wouldn’t talk to me about it, even if I asked. And I’d rather you told me about whatever it is when you’re sober. Besides, you did this same thing last year.”
“Did what?”
His forehead wrinkled as he looked at me, like he knew I knew exactly what he meant. “Binge drinking.”
“Drinking isn’t a crime.”
“I’d sure like to know what happened on this date that drives you to drink every year.”
“Doesn’t matter. The night’s over now, isn’t it? The clock resets. Three hundred sixty-five days to go.”
“Drinking to escape the demons in your past won’t change anything. Believe me. You’ll never get over it that way.”
I wasn’t trying to get over it. I was trying to get through it. I wouldn’t get over it no matter what I did. “She was so beautiful, Finch. I can still see her face, you know? Every curve of her lips, every expression, every freckle.”
“See whose face? Who’s the she you’re talking about?”
“Elena.”
“Who’s Elena?”
“She’s ... I mean, she was ...”
What was I doing?
What was I saying?
“No one,” I said. “She was no one. I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”
Finch inserted the hotel card into the slot, using his back to nudge the door open. He walked to the bed, reached down, yanked the comforter toward the end of the bed, and set me down like I was made of porcelain.
“You need, uhh, any help with your clothes and stuff?”
I shook my head. “I can manage.”
I attempted to stand. Not a good idea. My legs wobbled like I was trying to balance my weight on a hoverboard, which was hard enough to do sober. I sat back down.
Finch glanced at me, shook his head. “Where are your night things?”
“My night things?”
He frowned, riffled through the dresser drawers. “It’s not funny. Stop laughing.”
“I’m not laughing.”
He handed me a T-shirt and pair of cotton leggings. “Yes, you are.”
I touched my lips. He was right. I was laughing. “I don’t get it. I only had three, maybe four shots.”
“Seven.”
“What?”
“You had seven.”
“Oh, wow. Seven. That’s a record for me.”
He turned. I lifted my shirt halfway, and the uncontrollable giggling started. “My shirt. It’s ... well, it’s stuck, Finch.”
He didn’t move, didn’t look back. “Try harder. You’ll get it.”
Try harder.
It felt like I’d slipped the armhole over my head, and my fingers weren’t coming to my aid either. Every time I tried to grab hold and tug the shirt down, I lost my grip. It was like my fingers were metal prongs, grappling at the stuffed cat I’d never win inside a toy machine.
“Finch, I need your help, and before you refuse again, you know how hard it is for me to ask for help when I need it.”
He arched back, looking at me with one eye half open. “How did you ... what are you ... never mind.”
He gripped the shirt, fixing it before sliding it over my head the right way.
I pulled off my jeans, flung them across the room, took the leggings he’d laid out for me and flung those too. It was too hot for pants. Much too hot.
He pulled the comforter over my chest, handed me a glass of water. I set the glass back on the bedside table without taking a sip, twisted his shirt, pulled him toward me. “You’re handsome, Finch. You know it?”
He pried my fingers off his shirt, set my hand back in my lap, and went for the water again. “You really need to drink this, Joss. Then you need to get some sleep.”
He walked over to a table in the corner of the room and sat down.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “You don’t need to sit there. I’ll drink the water. Go to bed. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I don’t want you watching over me. I’m not a child.”
“You’re acting like one.”
He sounded mad, which made me mad. “Are you listening? I don’t want you to be here. I’m the boss. You’re the employee.”
He crossed his arms in front of him. “I don’t care what you want right now.”
I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, the emotions I’d been dealing with all day, Finch seeing me at my worst, or the fact I wasn’t getting my way. The past twenty-four hours seeped in just enough to hit me hard. Embarrassed, I cocooned myself beneath the blanket.
“Joss, what’s wrong? Are you crying?”
I felt the warmth of his body next to me, his hand on my shoulder. I felt like a fool. I was his boss. This wasn’t right. “It’s nothing. Please, Finch. I need to be alone right now. Okay?”
“I know I said you should wait until you’re sober, but if you want to tell me what’s going on, I’ll listen.”
“No, you were right. I should wait.”
“Don’t you trust me enough to tell me?”
“It’s not about trust, Finch. Believe me.”
The silhouette of the moon shone through the window, casting a ray of light across his face. I poked my head over the blanket just enough to see his expression, a mixture of confusion and hurt. “Don’t be mad. Okay?”
He stood, tucking the comforter around me. “I’ll leave you alone. Knock on my door if you need me. Goodnight, Joss.”