Before Sunday

Twenty Two

GOD KNOWS WHAT TIME IT IS. 

I'm never drinking again. Ever. The morning I'd met Jackson was the most hungover I'd been until now. My mouth is caked with saliva that reminds me of partially dried glue. My throat is raw as if I were at a death metal concert last night. My eyeballs sting with the burn of a million suns and the headache throbbing at the base of my skull is agony. When I wake, I bring my palms to my temples and squeeze, hoping the pressure will make it stop hurting, but it doesn't.

I roll my body over to move but the very simple change of gravity makes the room begin to sway and I fall off the bed and scramble on my hands and knees to Xavier's bathroom. I hardly manage to flip the lid before I upchuck what looks to be mostly water mixed with a small part of my soul.

It's a vile reminder of why I'm never drinking again.

"Ugh."

I rest my head against the shower door and wait to see if the feeling subsides. I'm an idiot. I deserve every single part of this. I have to fix things with Jackson and Xavier. I need to apologize. I consider rising to my feet and getting my cell phone but I can't see straight, so focusing on a tiny screen sounds like anguish. Instead I sit on the floor of X's bathroom with my forehead pressed to the cool glass of the shower door, wishing that having Jackson nearby was all that I needed.

You need a lobotomy, Lola.

"Whoa, Lola. You look like shit." Ugh. Jared's here.

"Astute observation, as always, Jared."

I can't look at him. I try to but the sight makes my eyes sting even more. I don't know why Xavier didn't kick the guy out a long time ago. He reminds me of the dude who spit when Madeline was affixed to me. Revolting. Disgusting. All around gross.

"Need a little help?"

"From you?" It sounds far bitchier than I intend, but I can't help it. I'd rather suffer on the icy tile of Xavier's floor for all of eternity than accept help from Jared. He'd probably try and cop a cheap feel or two while he was 'helping.'

"You want help to stand?"

I reach my hand out and tap the toilet tank. "Pass. I'm getting up close and personal with my new best friend."

"You know what is a great cure for a hangover?" he asks.

"Grease or gatorade," I reply. "Ideally a combination of both."

"Sex," he says matter-of-factly. Guy doesn't even flinch at the excessive inappropriateness of his statement. Douche. Maximum level.

I'm about to tell him off when a voice pierces the air. A voice I've never been happier to hear in all of my life. Jackson. "Good thing I'm here then, Sir Syphillis," he says. "Why don't you take a step back?"

I do look up this time, able to stomach the image of Jared, as long as my favorite day of the week is next to him.

Jared stands taller, his brows knitting down. "Who the hell are you?"

"Her boyfriend in the present, husband in the future, all around protector in the present," Jackson says. "I've travelled through space and time to be with her, so like I said, do us both a favor and back off."

"What. The. Fuck?" Jared asks. "Are you on drugs?"

I hear Xavier chuckle before he says, "Go Jared. Lola is fine."

"Whatever, man," Jared says, pushing his way past Jax first, then Xavier.

"Jackson?" It comes out as a question. God, it is a question to confirm that he's here and this is not some hallucination. I don't deserve to have him here.