Page 102 of A Real Goode Time

“You got a lot of metaphors.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Okay,” I said. “Night night time.”

I fell asleep, and for the first time in days, I didn’t dream about Torie. But only because I was too wasted to dream about anything.

15

Torie

Iwoke up with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. I felt bodies on both sides of me—Lexie on my left, Charlie on my right. I was pinned between them, and I had to pee so bad it hurt.

I struggled out from under the blankets and army crawled across the bed to the foot, flopped ungracefully to the floor in a pile of moaning drunk girl, stumbled to my feet using the wall and door post. Where was I? I didn’t recognize the room. The door was weird, too. I opened it, stumbled out, and wondered if I was still more drunk than I thought, or if the floor was moving. A glance out a nearby round window showed the world tipping up and down—and I remembered I was on a boat.

I found a bathroom and spent a very, very long time relieving myself, washed up, and followed my nose topside to coffee. Harlow was sitting at a tiny bistro table in the bow of the boat, wearing a bikini and sunglasses and a big floppy hat, with a pour-over coffee set on the table and a tray of upside-down white porcelain mugs beside it.

She heard me, twisted, and smiled at me. “Hi, there! Surprised to see you upright this early. You’re the first one up.”

I followed the railing and hesitated, squinting in the bright post-dawn sunlight—this was her boat, her coffee, and I didn’t want to just assume or invite myself into her quiet moment alone. “Yeah, my bladder woke me up.”

“No matter how drunk I get, my bladder wakes me up every time,” she said, laughing. “So I commiserate with that.” She tugged her sunglasses off, and patted the open chair. “Here, sit. Put these on.”

And just like that, I had Harlow Grace’s personal sunglasses on my face and she was pouring me coffee. Thick, black, strong coffee.

“This is amazing coffee,” I said.

Harlow sighed, a smile hidden behind her mug. “Isn’t it? Xavier makes it. He has this whole process he insists on, and I don’t know what it all includes but it ends up with this truly amazing coffee.”

“Where is Xavier?”

“Oh, he made me coffee and then went back to sleep.”

“Jealous of that ability. Once I’m up, I’m up.”

“Same,” she said. Glanced at me. “We don’t have to talk. I’m fine sitting here and drinking coffee ’til you’re sober enough to function.”

I groaned in gratitude. “Thank fuck. Talking is hard.”

She laughed, and we sat together in surprisingly companionable silence, the boat gently rocking, the sun shining, the seagulls screeing.

I heard steps, twisted, and saw Rhys approaching, his eyes squinted, shirtless, wearing his jeans but unbuttoned and unzipped, barefoot, T-shirt in one hand and shoes and socks in the other. Harlow noticed him too, and her eyes shot to mine.

“You need a minute with him?”

I shrugged. “I dunno.”

She poured a coffee, and handed it to Rhys as he leaned against the bow railing. “Here, have some life juice. You look like you need it.”

He accepted it, shielding his eyes with one hand. “This is why I don’t get drunk. I hate hangovers.” A sip. “Fuckin’ hell, this coffee was made by Jesus hisownself.”

“Or my dear husband, but he’s pretty close, if you ask me.”

“You guys are married?” I asked. “It’s hard to tell who’s actually married and who’s not.”

Harlow laughed. “We all look at marriage pretty loosely. Have we been joined in legal matrimony? No, not yet. We will, someday. Maybe once we feel like we’re ready to have kids, which I’m not, yet, and neither is he. But he’s my husband in every way that matters.”

Harlow’s eyes bounced between Rhys and me. “Well. The tension between you two is thick as mud, so I think I’ll go, now. Help yourself to the coffee, and if you’re hungry, there’s plenty of food in the kitchen.”