Funny You Should Ask(58)
That’s right. Running Pyramid.
I’m not good at games.
I’m not good at running games. I’m not good at word games. I’m not good at games.
You will not be surprised to learn that Gabe is very, very good at Running Pyramid.
You may be surprised, however, to learn that this is usually how his house parties go. Not the booze-soaked, endless orgies of Hollywood lore. Nope, instead, we all take turns running from room to room, reading prompts off a list and trying to get our teammates to guess correctly with a few choice words.
I was assured that it would be easier with a drink under my belt.
That might be true for some, but I tried it, and trust me, it did not get any easier. I’d like to share with you stories of how actors like Oliver Matthias and designers like Margot Rivera killed at this game, but unfortunately, after only one drink on very little sleep, I completely passed out.
In Gabe’s dog bed.
I don’t remember much of the rest of the evening, but I do know that at some point, Gabe himself lifted me up and out of the dog bed, and carried me into his guest room. Where he tucked me in and left me to sleep off the second drunken night we’d spent together.
The evening didn’t end there.
When I woke up—head aching, mouth dry—I had no idea where I was at first. I was in a strange, dark room. There was the soft, muffled sound of talking on the other side of the door. It sounded almost familiar. Somehow, I hoisted myself upright, and found my way out. It wasn’t until I got to the living room that I remembered what had happened.
It helped that Gabe was sitting on the couch watching TV. He filled me in on some of the more unfamiliar details—like the fact that I’d uncovered a natural talent for Running Pyramid and was also a very sore loser. Apparently, I had ended up in the dog bed because I hadn’t liked how the other team kept winning. I had been convinced they were cheating.
Gabe helped soothe my embarrassment by offering me popcorn. He has his own little machine that he set up on the counter of his kitchen. That way he can give the puppy some before he puts his own toppings on it.
His toppings of choice? Cinnamon and sugar.
The TV show he paired with it? Star Trek: The Next Generation.
That’s right, my dears, Gabe Parker is a Trekkie.
I’m a Trekkie as well, but let’s face it, that’s not surprising at all.
Gabe’s favorite character? Worf. Mine? Data. I’m certain a therapist could go to town with those revelations, but all Gabe and I did with it was watch several episodes of our favorite show before we went to bed.
Gabe in his room. Me in the guest room.
Chapter
19
My head and mouth felt as though I’d been dragged hair-first through a sandstorm, and considering I couldn’t remember how I had gotten home last night, it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility.
At least I’d managed to take off my shoes and dress before falling into bed, though I apparently hadn’t taken anything else off. By touch alone, I discovered I was still wearing my bra and it still had a safety pin in it. The fact that it was closed seemed to be due more to dumb luck than any forethought on my end.
I kept hearing a rattling, buzzing noise, but it wasn’t consistent. It would buzz once, stop, buzz twice, stop, and then buzz again.
It took me a good five minutes to realize that it was my phone shimmying across my bedside table.
Someone was texting me.
It felt like a personal affront, especially considering I couldn’t peel my eyelids open far enough to read whatever was on the screen. Every time I tried, the bright light from the bedroom window made me recoil like a vampire. I might have even hissed during my first attempt.
Finally I managed to dislodge the sleep crumbs caking the corners of my eyes enough to blink and peer at the screen. It took ten seconds for anything to focus.
Then it took another ten seconds to believe what I was seeing.
Texts. Multiple ones.
From Gabe.
Get some chilaquiles, he’d texted. Best hangover cure I know.
No, wait, a burger. A big, greasy burger and fries. That had been the second text.
In total, Gabe sent me seven text messages with seven different suggestions of food I should eat. My heart was touched, but my stomach rebelled and I spent the next fifteen minutes remembering that in addition to the pink drinks from the after-party, I’d also had several red Jell-O shots at the club. My toilet looked like someone had been murdered in it and I never wanted to eat anything that tasted like pineapple or cherry again.
When I pulled myself off the floor and back to my bed, I found that Gabe had sent me several more text messages.
Ollie says no caffeine, he’d said. But I finally found Preeti’s chai recipe so here it is.
He’d included a photo of a handwritten recipe on a piece of paper with Spider-Man on the top.
Lots of water, he’d also written. A bathtub of water.
That I could do.
I started in the shower, gulping down as much as I could while washing away the dried sweat and sticky remnants of spilled drinks. As I began to come back to life, the rest of the evening returned to me.
After Gabe had left, Ollie and I had danced for a couple more hours and then he’d gotten a car to take me home. By some sheer force of will, I hadn’t fallen asleep or thrown up in the backseat of the car and had managed to operate my front door keys as well as maneuver the staircase leading up to my room before wrestling my dress off and passing out.