The Chemistry of Love(17)

My brain felt a little fuzzy, and I wasn’t sure what he meant by circle because the only kind I could think of were concentric and orthogonal.

“You don’t seem like a CEO,” I announced.

“You don’t seem like a cosmetic chemist,” he teased back.

“I think I’m insulted.”

“Me too.”

But it was hard to feel too upset with him smiling at me like he thought I was delightful. Maybe I should add that to my list of traits for Drunk Anna. Talkative and delightful.

Also, prone to crying and dripping a lot of snot.

A green haze of nausea swelled up inside my stomach. “I’m not feeling too well.”

He immediately got to his feet and offered me his hand. “Let me help you up.”

I weighed my options—I was going to have to touch this sexy man or crawl like an undignified idiot across this floor to reach a toilet.

I settled for the lesser of two evils. When he took my hand in his, it was like that time when I was eight years old and performed an experiment with a wall socket, a screwdriver, and a nine-volt battery. A massive electrical shock slammed into me. I was glad I was still sitting down, because his touch would have floored me.

Trying to ignore the sensations singing along my nerve endings, I cleared my throat and said, “I was right. Your hands are nice and strong. Are they symmetrical, too?”

Dumb. That wasn’t going to help anything. Don’t talk about the man’s body parts being sexy! I told my brain, but it didn’t seem to be in the mood to listen.

“Probably. We could grab a ruler and get some exact measurements if you’d like.” He pulled me up slowly, and when I got into a standing position, my body swayed toward him. With his other hand, he reached for my waist to hold me still.

I stood there while those champagne bubbles fizzed around inside me. He was a big man. He towered over me, and that was no mean feat. Mean feat. I repeated the words internally. That seemed wrong. Fean meat? No. What was that phrase again?

“Careful,” he said as I tried to make my limbs hold firm. “You don’t want to fall and hit your head. That would be a lot of paperwork.”

“In case I do injure myself, please tell the EMTs that I’m O positive.”

He turned me then, putting an arm around my waist and helping me toward a stall. “If that happens, I’m telling the EMTs to keep you away from any open flames. Because your spilled blood would ignite like a Roman candle right now.”

“Good idea. Now, I think I’m ready to vomit.”

That made him hurry and help me to a toilet. And as I crouched down, I realized that I hadn’t thought about Craig at all for the last five minutes.



I woke up in my grandparents’ living room the next morning with no recollection of how I’d gotten there or why I was wearing a costume. Jimmy Talon and Dame Judi Finch were singing loudly, and I let out a groan as I realized that my head was pounding and my mouth felt like it had been recently filled with soggy, vomit-covered marbles. I pushed myself up into a seated position and quickly saw that was a mistake. I rested my head against my hands and wondered why I’d never realized just how noisy the birds were. It was a background noise that I’d learned to tune out, apparently except when I had a crushing hangover.

Something was on my forehead. I reached up and grabbed a Post-it Note. I looked at it and saw my grandma’s handwriting. “Need to talk.”

I did not need to talk. I was twenty-six years old. I could stay out late on a school night and drink if I wanted to. She didn’t need to lecture me on the dangers of getting drunk. I was well aware of the chemical reaction and how my liver broke down alcohol into acetaldehyde and then into acetic acid and that I hadn’t been able to outdrink my body’s ability to break it down properly. Thus, drunk and hungover.

My head throbbed as I wished again that I could move out and get my own place. I could probably do it if I stopped buying used lab equipment.

Or if I had an actual job again.

Grabbing my purse from the floor, I started for the stairs, and the events of last night came rushing back so fast and so hard that I collapsed against the wall for a moment.

Craig. Engaged.

Me, drunk and crying and pouring out my heart to his brother, Marco. Every single embarrassing and dumb thing I’d done filled my brain, and I had to relive it for a few seconds, including Marco driving me home in his car as I ate fistfuls of french fries in the back seat while slurring out my address.

Good thing I never had to see him again.

I made it into the bathroom and dry heaved a few times, but nothing happened. I smelled so disgusting. It was a good thing I hadn’t slept closer to the birds or one of them might have gotten a contact high from all the fumes I was sure I’d been excreting.

I threw my purse on my bed and peeled off my dress. I started the shower, downed what was probably an alarming amount of acetaminophen, and then hopped into the shower and stayed there a long time.

When I got out, everything didn’t hurt quite as much as it had earlier that morning. I glanced at my alarm clock. It was already eleven thirty. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept in for so long. I’d obviously needed it.

I changed into my comfiest pair of pajamas. Part of me thought that I should get on my laptop immediately and start looking for a new job, but I overruled my logical side and would spend the day wallowing in my mistakes and sadness and start the job hunt tomorrow.