Gigi, Listening by Chantel Guertin

Author:Chantel Guertin [Guertin, Chantel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2023-01-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Day 4, Wednesday, 7:43 a.m.

Brighton Kingley Vale

The sun streams into my small room through the slit in the drapes, hitting me smack in the face. I roll over, into the bar preventing me from falling off the top bunk, and remember where I am.

“Charlotte?”

No answer.

Pain sears through my head.

Charlotte’s bed is empty. My phone on the nightstand says it’s 7:43. Exactly seventeen minutes to get downstairs before the bus leaves. Three steps to the bathroom and I’m in front of the wall-to-wall mirror, which confirms: I look like a raccoon. Or maybe, like I’m a raccoon that’s been attacked by a raccoon. Not taking off my makeup or running a brush through my windswept hair before bed was clearly a bad decision. But then, the entire night was a bad decision.

For the first time since the tour started I pray that today’s not the day Zane shows up.

I run the water, catching it in my cupped hands, then splash it onto my face. Instant regret. Leaning over the sink was a terrible idea. I stand up again. Also a bad idea. Turns out, any sudden movements make my head feel like it’s being whacked with an Oxford Dictionary.

Maybe the bus will leave without me and I won’t have to face Taj, I think hopefully. But then I feel annoyance. Except, he’s the one who should be embarrassed, not me. He led me on. I pause. Wait, did he lead me on? Or did I totally misread the signals? Was he just being friendly? No, he definitely seemed interested. He was definitely the one who got close and touched me (with his pinky!) and made me think he was going to kiss me—and he hadn’t had anything to drink.

I groan and reach for the soft marine-blue hand towel looped through the brass ring on the wall, hold it under the cold water, then press it to my face, but it doesn’t help. I whip it onto the floor angrily. None of this would’ve happened if Zane were here. I would’ve been walking on the boardwalk with Zane. On the pier with Zane. On the beach with Zane.

Actually, scratch missing the bus. I need to get on that bus. Zane might show up today . . . Except, I’m in no condition to meet Zane.

I rest my head on the counter for a moment, the marble cold on my skin. Then I push myself up, splash more water on my face, grab another towel—and dry it. I try to erase the dark circles under my eyes with a thick layer of concealer, then add blush to my cheeks and a swipe of peach gloss on my lips. Moments later I stand before my suitcase, naked. I am too hungover for anything but cozy. No scratchy fabrics, no tight waistbands. Something that will feel like I’m being wrapped in a comforter. Sitting beside my suitcase, I dig around for the pair of Lululemons I know I packed, when I spot a pair of yoga pants I don’t recognize: in sage.

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