I wake up with a dry mouth, burning eyes and pounding head as the sound of music assaults my senses. Arrick has tunes pounding through the floors as I blink awake and realize I am still on the couch, face down, and the blanket is wrapped around my legs like freaking restraints. I feel like utter shit, and the table is littered with cold pizza and the scraps of a weird middle of the night scramble for food. We ate, fell asleep and woke up at the same time. Well actually, stretching out and slapping the back of my hand in his face was the catalyst for his grumpy rise from the dead, and he did try to push me off the sofa in retaliation.
We raided the kitchen for munchies, watched another movie for like an hour while grumpily arguing over absolute pointless crap because we were both tired, and in my opinion, Tom Cruise is far hotter with an Irish accent and boxing gloves, than he is in either Top Gun or Cocktail. We both must have fallen asleep after that, as everything beyond the horse dying in ‘The Never Ending Story’ is hazy in my head.
I can still see the indent on the cushion beside me from his head and the whole couch and I smell like him. I guess he stayed here with me the full night after all.
I groan and look around, spying him in the kitchen, singing to himself as he makes a fresh pot of coffee. He’s still rumpled and wearing last night’s clothes too, so I’m guessing he hasn’t been up for long either.
“Ughh, shut up.” I yell at him and go back to burying my head under the pillow I have been lying on. Annoyed that I have had like no sleep and he is being his usual happy, chirpy morning person self that grates on my nerves. I’m fairly sure he got as little sleep as me and it is way too early for this kind of nonsense.
I swear the music gets louder.
I sit up in a rage and glower at him across the kitchen, and catch him smirking my way, remote pointed at the stereo with that childish look of a mean boy. Sometimes I love him to bits and sometimes, like right now, he is a total ass who makes my life a living hell just for the fun of it. I think he gets off on torturing me because he does it frequently. He turns it back down with a chuckle and aims that full Hollywood smile my way.
Trying to melt me with dazzling smiles is not going to work.
“Morning beautiful, you’re looking a little rough around the gills.” He nods at me earning another glare, and I at once set about trying to wipe my eyes awake and tame the hair that is tickling my face. More like welded to my face as I rip a strand off my cheek.
I sit up slowly, stretch out and yawn three times before rubbing at my face again. The grubby residue that ends up on my hands alerts me to the fact I slept in tear-stained makeup and probably look like a train wreck. I groan and get up to lazily trudge to his room for the nearest bathroom; the spare room is the one I normally get sent to, but his is closer, and I am still exhausted.
“The walk of a very hungover, grumpy little miss,” he jests after me, meeting an extended middle finger thrown back at him without even looking his way. In no way have I ever been a morning person and with an added hangover I can see me choking him with my bare hands. He laughs as I push open his door and shuffle into his immaculate bedroom, which is still in darkness from not opening the blinds in here. It’s completely clean and neat with a fully manicured and made bed because he obviously never came in here at all.
I groan at the fright which awaits me in the bathroom mirror. My long blonde hair is bed messy and standing up, tangled crazily due to the natural waves that I straighten out of my hair religiously. My face looks like I have been face painted as a panda then stood in a downpour for shits and giggles to let it run off, and I most definitely have bloodshot eyes and a puffy set of bags under both. I look exactly how I feel.
Pushing open his walk-in shower I turn it on, and then go rummaging for towels and his bathrobe and dump it all on the vanity by the door. I run a finger along the unit and pop it open to locate some wash products and spot all of Natasha’s crappy choices of shampoos and shower gels. I select a few and throw them all on the shower floor. I turn to the mirror with another grimace before kicking the bathroom door shut to his bedroom and strip off. I don’t even bother to lock it, knowing if he hears the shower on, he will never walk in.
Wrapped in his robe and towel drying my hair, I pull open the bathroom door and wander into his room, a lot more pulled together than the hazy fogginess of being ripped awake leaves. The soothing gray walls and mix of urban meets modern in his domain are welcoming; scaffold, wood and concrete assorted shelving he had built in here hold a lot of books and memorabilia as they span the one wall by the bed facing me. I smile at the large framed picture with Jake his brother, close to his bed. Both smiling back at me affectionately and obviously as close as brothers can get.
It still amazes me that they can be so different yet have so many similarities. The face shapes: some of their features are identical, but when set differently, with a change of hair and eye color, it makes them crazily unalike. Like salt and pepper. In build, however, they are clearly matched. They both inherited height from Sylvana’s side of the family, maybe width and strength from Giovanni, but all that muscular Adonis-like power they each share is most definitely straight out of their Italian roots. I find it hard nowadays to pick out which brother is more capable of beating someone to death. Arrick has a pretty strong lead with being a professional fighter, but Jake helps train him as his forte used to be in mixed martial arts too.
The bed is still neatly made up, all masculine looking and inviting in shades of gray tones and textures. I notice my clothes from last night are on the end of the bed, along with my shoes and one of Arrick’s hooded sweaters. He’s left them here so I can get dressed into something that fits me and making it clear I am not to walk about without a top on over it. I eye roll at the obvious brotherly move and slip off the robe without any shyness. He’s left the bedroom door shut and would knock if he were planning on coming back in.
I used to keep clothes in his spare room when I stayed here frequently, but last time I left here I cleared them all out. A stupid childish act just to get at him because Natasha had done something to piss me off, like she always does. It was my way of saying ‘fuck you’ and moved every single thing I ever kept here to Amber’s apartment. It was a lot. An array of clothes, toiletries, and personal effects from the room I used to call mine.
I can’t deny that our growing apart these past few months was because of both of us, both shoving and pushing where she was concerned, and I didn’t help matters by impulsively storming out of his life anytime I got mad.
I pull my clothes on quickly and use his hairbrush to tame my damp hair, and leave it hanging down my back to air dry a little. I at least look clean and fresh, and younger Sophie like this, with that air of sweet child that looks like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. His sweater is keeping me decent and I leave my shoes on his bed. My feet are still suffering so they can stay there until I get him to take me to Amber’s apartment to retrieve all my worldly possessions for that dreaded trip home. I pause at the stir of nerves and anxiety when it comes to mind that it’s what we are doing today and push them down steadily, breathing in slowly to calm the tension inside of me.