ASHLEY
Fuck.
My head is splitting open like someone jammed a sledgehammer through my temples. Everything hurts—my throat, my stomach, the backs of my knees. My pillow smells like mascara and regret.
I blink, slow. My lashes stick together.
I’m in my bed.
Alone.
Shit.
My hand shoots out, searching the other side of the mattress—still warm, but empty. My stomach twists. Beckett’s not here. Not next to me, not hovering like he always does when I’m sick or stupid or sad or all of the above. Just gone.
I groan, press my palm to my forehead, try to force the night to come back in reverse. Tequila. Ryan. Laughter. His arm around my shoulder. The living room lights too bright. Me—saying God knows what.
I think I cried?
God, did I cry?
And where the hell is Beckett?
I sit up too fast a
