Smitten Kitten

chapter eighteen

"OH, HI VIKA."

I pause, needing a moment to drink in the scene that's in front of me. Her navy-blue cocktail dress is pooling around her thighs, back pressed against the stall's metal wall, head lolling onto her shoulder. Barely processing my presence is her watery blue-green eyes, an echo of Mark's. I don't need to take a glance inside the rim of the porcelain throne to know why she's found solace in the bathroom.

I never figured I'd be the one on the other side.

"Hey, Cecilia. What's up? How you feeling, girl?" I ask, baring my teeth in more of a grimace than a smile.

Her brows knit with a quiet intensity, a strand of dark hair falling between her eyes. Her lips part to answer, and it seems we both realize at the same time that something a little more than words is going to spill out as she instantly swerves her head in the toilet's direction.

I wince as she collapses into a fit of coughs and drops to a crouch. The sound of splashing water makes my nose crinkle. Seeing her hair dangerously close to the seat of the toilet, I sweep it away from her face, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"You still have that hair tie?" I ask with a sympathetic frown.

She nods, but doesn't say anything, only reaching behind to give me access to the black band clinging to her wrist. I gently tug it off and pull her hair back into a looser ponytail than she'd had this morning. I think I hear a mumble of thanks, but then she's disintegrating into a round of dry heaves that have empathy tickling in the back of my throat.

"Just get it out, seriously. You'll feel so much better when you get it all out," I say, rubbing a comforting hand up and down her back, surprising myself with the tender notes in my voice.

She nods again and is all too-quick to take my advice. I draw a deep breath and continue running my fingers along her spine, reaching to tug her dress down a bit, not that it seems like anyone else will join us. Still, as much as I'd pictured her face getting run over by an 18-wheeler many a time, the pathetic little garbles she's making has me wanting to make this as painless as possible.

Hopefully, I can find a permanent mailing address for them to send my Nobel Peace Prize sometime soon.

"I'm not- this is so not like me," Cecilia says once she's finally caught her breath again. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean-"

I throw up a hand to cut her off. "Oh my god- hey, stop, listen to me. Stop that, you're fine. I am the last person you need to be explaining yourself to. As least you got it into the toilet- I have done so much worse."

She lifts her chin, palm slapped over her forehead and a frown marked on her face, apparently not comforted by my lack of human decency. "This is so not like me."

I raise my brows, unable to tell who she's trying to convince more.

"Trust me when I say this is the most I've liked you since I met you. And I truly mean that."

Her brows pinch in confusion, and I snort, trying and failing to restrain my grin. There's mascara smudged under her eyes and a washed-out quality to her face that makes it look like I'm staring into a mirror of my twenty-two-year-old self, or really, my self probably six months ago. It looks as if she's about to argue, but a precarious burp bubbles up her throat and she takes a pause.

"Listen, take your time. Nat's pretty preoccupied upstairs, and the club doesn't close for another hour or so. It doesn't look like anyone's coming down here, either," I reassure her, giving her a small pat on the arm.

"Does that mean you like me?" Cecilia asks, finally, and there's a weak smile on her face.

I roll my eyes. "I know you're drunk, but I don't think you're delusional."