Portia
I wake to a violent pounding in my head. I groan, turn over, burying my face in the pillow, the unfamiliar feel of it — mine is softer.
And mine doesn't smell like him. My eyelids fly open and bright sunlight makes my head hurt worse.
This is the second day now I'm waking with a headache. This one I did to myself.
Whiskey.
Too much of it.
It takes me a long minute to get up the courage to look behind me. But when I do, I find the bed empty and realize what that sound is. The shower.
He did sleep here, I realize. I still see the indentation from his head on the pillow and when I reach to touch it tentatively, it's still warm.
I wanted this, right? To be passed out when he touched me? So, I wouldn't remember it.
What do I remember? Not much.
Lifting the comforter, I peer und
