"Here's the thing though . . ." He trails off thoughtfully and then he looks straight at me. His eyes are steely and that makes me realise the fundamental difference between the young Ryan and this Ryan. He's hardened now. The sweet boy I once knew...
I lie awake for a long time after I return to my own room, trying to make sense of Ryan's words. Why does he think we could still have been friends after prom, after what had happened? Okay, so maybe ghosting him hadn't been the right decision, but I did what I needed to do at the time to protect my heart.
I can't help but wonder too why he had gotten so drunk. Based on the last words he spoke, I'm forced to consider that maybe it was because he thought me and Angus had gotten together. But given he hasn't shown the slightest glimmer of romantic interest in me since I arrived here, I find it hard to believe that he could possibly have been jealous.
Eventually I drift off into an uneasy, unsettled, thankfully dreamless sleep, but I'm wide awake long before my alarm even thinks about making itself heard. When I leave my room, I pause briefly outside Ryan's but I can't hear any noise. I'm going to assume he's still alive though, although I suspect he'll be so hungover today that he may wish he was dead.
"I hear Ryan was in a bit of a state last night," is the first thing Alice says when she arrives. I blink at her in disbelief.
"How do you even know that? You've literally just walked in the door!"
"I'm psychic," she explains, deadpan. Then giggles. "Just kidding. My wee brother was in the pub; that's the only reason I already know."
"I had to put him to bed, he couldn't even get his door unlocked," I tell her, struggling to keep my voice casual.
She raises her eyebrows at that, but passes no comment. "I've witnessed him drunk before, but it sounds like he was a whole other level last night. I hope he's okay." She leaves it at that, thankfully. I don't want to have to go into any further details about what was said in his room.
Today we're expecting a coachload of folk for an overnight stay before they head further North, so we focus on making sure the preparations for that are all set up, and before I know it, it's midday. One of the many things I like about this job is that no two days are the same.
It's quiet now as no one can check in until three, and any guest here for the weekend has already left, so I offer to treat Alice to a leaving lunch in the bar. "How are you feeling about finishing up?" I ask her as we wait for our meals to show up.
She shrugs. "It just feels . . . A bit surreal I guess? Like this is the longest time I've had off from working since I left uni, so that makes me excited, but then I remember that in just a couple of weeks I'll be knee-deep in shitty nappies and probably wishing I was dealing with a moany guest here instead."
"You paint a beautiful picture," I tease, and she laughs. Then she glances behind me at the door and her smile widens before she raises her voice.
"Don't look now, Iona, but Clark Kent has just turned up, and he's clearly a hungover wreck."
"Aw, give me a break, Alice," Ryan says tiredly, dropping into a chair between us. He's dressed very casually in a black t-shirt, faded jeans and a hooded zip-up top. "I fell asleep in my contacts." He pushes the dark grey frames he's wearing higher on his nose, a self-conscious blush staining his cheeks. That's the only colour in his face at the moment as he's otherwise pale as a ghost.
"Ouch," Alice says sympathetically. "Did you wake up thinking you suddenly had perfect eyesight? That's happened to me a few times. Always gutting when you realise it's not true."
"Yeah, for about five seconds before I realised my eyes were virtually stuck together," he replies dryly. He groans and places a hand on his forehead, triggering recollections of the previous night for me. "My head is killing me."
"I did try to remind you about your contacts," I say lightly, and his gaze suddenly sharpens as he looks at me.
"So you did," he mutters. He looks away, but the colour on his face darkens. He drags a hand across his beard. "I wasn't sure if I had imagined you being there."
I wonder how much he actually remembers. It's clear that last night's alcohol acted as a form of truth serum for him, temporarily removing the filter he seems to have acquired around me. I don't think he'll like the fact he lowered his guard so much.
"Have you spewed?" Alice asks him. He shakes his head.
"It seems inevitable though." He does look like he's still on the verge of being sick.
"Sometimes it helps," I say. "But the process isn't nice."
"True." Ryan stands. "I'm going to go see if I can talk someone in the kitchen into making me a roll and sausage. Figure it'll either kill me or cure me." He wanders away and I try not to look at his arse again, aware that Alice is watching my every move.
After a few minutes she excuses herself to pop to the loo and I'm left alone with my confusing thoughts again.
"Iona?" I snap to attention. Ryan's standing beside me, holding a roll and sausage wrapped in a napkin in one hand. Seems he managed to charm himself a late breakfast after all. I meet his eyes. How can he be so visibly hungover and yet still look this good?
He clears his throat, adorably awkward. "Listen, I don't really remember what I said last night, so I'm really sorry if I said anything that offended you or was . . . Inappropriate."
I'm hoping my smile is reassuring enough as he seems worried. "You didn't."
"I talk a lot of crap when I'm pissed," he adds wryly. "Which is one of the many reasons why I try not to end up in a state like that."
"Honestly, you were fine."
He actually, finally, smiles at me then. It's not a full-blown Ryan 1.0 grin, admittedly, but it's the best attempt at one I've witnessed since we were reunited. "Phew," he says, blowing out a puff of air as he starts to walk away.
But he's barely taken two or three steps when he hesitates and turns back. "And - just, thanks. For last night. For everything." There's a flicker of something in his expression; like he's trying to tell me something without having to actually say the words out loud.
And, as he leaves the bar, there's no doubt in my mind that he does remember our entire conversation.
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I do feel for Ryan . . . A bad hangover is the worst!
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