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Trinity is dying.
Her brain is attempting to pound straight out of her skull with every heartbeat; the contents of her stomach trying too hard to make an appearance back up her oesophagus. The only thing confirming she is not dead yet is the light that filters in through her eyelids, heavy blackout curtains still zinging on their metal rod in the wake of sudden, unwelcome movement.
The person who invited this torture into Trinity’s life on this godforsaken day pads unbothered across the fluffy carpet. Trinity can practically feel the amusement radiating off her from the bedside, despite still resolutely facing the far wall with her eyes closed.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Yolanda says drily.
She’s not even speaking that loudly, but her voice still slices through Trinity’s aching head like a scalpel. Or maybe one of those drills the OR uses in ortho cases. Trinity presses her face closer to the pillow in hopes of finding even a sliver of relief in the buttery soft silk of Yolanda’s ridiculously expensive bedsheets.
“I’m dying,” she groans, figuring she should let Yolanda know. Her voice is completely blown, just a remnant of it left to croak out sad-sounding sentences and dying declarations. It sounds quite pathetic. Yolanda should take pity on her.
Which she doesn’t. “No, you’re not. You’re just hungover.”
Trinity usually appreciates Yolanda’s rational outlook on life, but right now isn’t one of those times. She tugs the covers closer, sinking into the comfort they offer to make up for her misery. They’re definitely more comfortable than the ones she has for her own bed.
But—A frown tugs at Trinity’s brows as she fights a new wave of nausea. Why is she at Yolanda’s place right now? She’s, like, ninety-three percent sure she wasn’t supposed to be here. Despite the overpowering headache, she has a faint recollection of making plans for her day off work that included sleeping in after a night of karaoke and finally catching up on her laundry because she may or may not have run out of clean underwear. She has to draw a line somewhere.
“Trinity?”
She digs her nose into the pillow. It smells like Yolanda. Maybe she can shed some light on the situation. “Why am I here?”
A brief pause. Then, with a suspiciously amused undertone, “You called from your Uber last night to crash here because Whitaker is spending the weekend at the farm and you lost your keys.”
That… could theoretically be true, but doesn’t particularly sound like Trinity. Okay, sure, she has lost her phone before during a night out. Her credit card, once. A handful of jackets, and her good sunglasses, though she had found most of those again when she had sobered up and returned to whatever bar or club she’d been at the night before.
Her keys aren’t on that list. They live clipped to her beltloop whenever she’s out, her trusty carabiner a heavy-duty one that could secure a grown adult. She hasn’t lost them once. Having a safe place to return to is much too important. That shit is ingrained deeply.
And so, her reply is a confusion-laden, “What?”
“Yeah.” Yolanda pauses. “While simultaneously shushing King when she told you that you didn’t actually lose them.”
Oh god. Heat rushes to Trinity’s face, and she’s all too glad Yolanda can’t actually see her right now. She is already never living this down. “I did?”
“You asked to crash here for the night.”
…The fact that Yolanda let her is probably a positive sign, right?
The mattress dips at the foot of the bed, and Trinity curls her legs up to give Yolanda space to sit.
“How much did you guys have to drink, anyway? You’re not usually that drunk after a night out with King.”
That’s true. Primal scream therapy is usually more about the screaming than anything, with just enough drinks to loosen them up. But last night—Well, Trinity might have gotten a little carried away. She sighs. “Too much. I think I suggested a drinking game.”
She thinks Yolanda could try a little harder not to laugh at her. “A drinking game?”
“It sounded fun at the time,” Trinity whines. She digs her thumb into the ridge of her brows in hopes of relieving the persisting ache. “I don’t know, the details are a little foggy.”
“Is that the only thing that’s foggy?”
Glaring would have very little effect in her current position, and Trinity refuses to expose herself further to the blinding daylight. She settles on an angry pout. “No.” Pretty much the entirety of last night is foggy. “Mel really shouldn’t be able to outdrink me.”
If she wasn’t so annoyed, she’d probably be wildly impressed. For all that Mel clearly has very little experience or general interest in partying, she clearly knows how to. That girl can hold her liquor too well.
“Well, that explains a few things.” Yolanda’s dry tone is infused with too much humour, and an alarm goes off in Trinity’s mind.
“What.”
It’s silent.
Trinity finally twists around in bed, braving through the harsh light of day to open her eyes and squint at Yolanda’s carefully blank face. Dread rises in her stomach. “What did I do?”
“You don’t remember?”
Trinity slowly shakes her head, overly aware of the tilting world. Trepidation grows along with Yolanda’s gorgeously mean smirk. It would probably do things to Trinity’s insides if nausea wasn’t taking up all the space. “No?”
Yolanda tilts her head, eyes sharp. “Not even handing King your phone and telling her to record as you went up onto that stage solo—”
“No,” Trinity interrupts, eyes widening as the memory breaks violently through her pounding headache like water bursting through a dam. “No, I didn’t—”
Yolanda hums. “You absolutely did.” She grins and gets up from the bed, disappearing into the bathroom while the realisation settles with Trinity. She reappears with a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen.
“Mel actually recorded that?”
“Yes.”
Yolanda holds out her offerings, eyes narrowing when Trinity goes to take them from her current position. She doesn’t relinquish her grip on either item until Trinity groans in surrender and hoists herself somewhat upright, away from the comfort of the duvet, leaning against the headboard.
The glass is cool in her hand. Yolanda unscrews the pill bottle for her, tipping two pills into her palm. Trinity throws them back and swallows them down with a big gulp of water. The introduction of hydration into her system suddenly reminds her she’s parched, so she brings the glass back up to her lips and chugs half of it before Yolanda tugs it from her grip.
She sets it down on the nightstand. “You’re going to throw up if you keep going like that. And I like this carpet.”
Trinity ignores her. She runs her tongue along her teeth, grimacing at the plaque stuck to them. Ugh. At least the sensation isn’t as bad as last time she got drunk and crashed. Did Yolanda make her brush her teeth before she went to bed? “And I sent it to you.”
“What?”
Trinity pushes her hair out of her face and glances down to find she’s wearing one of Yolanda’s oversized T-shirts. “The video.”
If Yolanda could just stop fucking humming in response, maybe Trinity could die of misery and embarrassment in peace. “It was a little shaky, but yes.” A pause. “You know, you can just tell me you think I’m hot. You don’t have to sing it.”
A tortured sound escapes Trinity.
“But I had no idea you had such a nice voice, cariño,” Yolanda teases.
And hey, it turns out that smooth silk sheets make for easy, suave sliding back underneath the covers. Trinity pulls them up and over her head, basking in the stuffy darkness, but her reprieve from Yolanda’s amused stare is short-lived, because one muffled “Trinity?” later, the covers are rudely pulled back.
“Let me perish in peace, please.” Trinity grabs for the covers, but Yolanda keeps them out of reach.
“No can do.”
A sigh falls from Trinity’s lips. She gives up and rubs at her eyes. “Did you wake me up just to bully me?”
“Obviously.” The sarcasm is so thick Trinity can practically taste it. If she was a little less hungover, she might’ve tried to.
“You could’ve let me sleep.” And postponed Trinity’s current embarrassment at least a handful of hours. Wouldn’t that have been nice?
“I could’ve,” Yolanda acknowledges. “But that would have ruined your sleeping schedule, and I assume you don’t want to show up like a zombie to your shift tomorrow.”
There is that endless rationality again. Trinity scowls, trying to hang onto her annoyance when a teeny tiny part of her deep down recognises Yolanda’s actions for the strange care they are. Her stomach swirls in a manner that has very little to do with her nausea.
Yolanda holds out a hand in offering, and Trinity takes it before she even thinks it through. “C’mon, I already got breakfast started. Let’s see if we can’t cure that hangover of yours, Dr Santos.”