Oh, I’ll bring it.
* * *
The only thing I brought was my body to the floor. I’m curled up, arms folded over my head, as the lasses sing some drunken version of “We Are The Champions”. I feel a pat on my head and lift my eyes to find a gloating Norah.
“Don’t worry, O’Brien. I’ll make sure your costume is a flattering color.” A small smirk dances on her lips. “With a matching boa.”
“Fuck me,” I moan. “How are you even standing? This whole pub is spinning right now.”
She giggles. “It’s okay, Teag. There’s no shame in being a lightweight. Some of us can just hold our liquor better than others.”
Before I can form a retort, Eamon has his arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her away. He better keep an eye on that one. She’s trouble.
“Oh, baby boy. You’re looking rough.” Layla squats down next to me, brushing my hair back in what would be a touching gesture if not for the fecking smirk on her lovely face. Or faces, rather. There are three of her right now.
“Kill me now. Just put me out of my misery,” I mumble.
A husky laugh leaves her before she turns her head—heads—over her shoulder. “Rowan, come help me get thisborrachoup and into the Uber.” She’s so loud and my head spins.
I’m not sure if I’m walking, floating, or being dragged to the car because I can’t feel my legs. My stomach is roiling and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that when I wake up tomorrow, my head will be in ribbons. My head lops to the left where Ro is grumbling about kicking a ball directly into my bollocks at the next practice. I grimace and roll my head to the right. Layla’ eyes meet mine and she smirks at me again.
“You’re so beautiful,” I slur. My eyelids aregetting heavy now.
She huffs a laugh. “Thank you.”
“How’d I get so lucky?”
“Good question,” Ro mutters on my other side and Layla snorts.
“Layla,” I mumble. “I love you.”
She jerks her head to look at me, those brown eyes blown wide, her perfect lips falling open on a soft “oh”.
Then the world goes black.
* * *
I was right. My head is in absolute ribbons. It feels like someone is taking a garden dibber to the back of my skull while riding upside down in a waltzer. The last thing I remember is Rowan and Layla hoisting me up off of O’Nelly’s floor.
“Fucking Christ,” I groan into the pillow.
Based on the scent embedded in the pillowcase, I assume that I’m at Layla’s house. She always smells so good—a mixture of soft florals and citrus.
“Buenos dias, guapo.”
Slightly turning my head, I crack my eyelids open to find her lying in bed next to me. Her raven hair is pulled into a high ponytail, sleep lines nestled along her cheek. There’s something in her eyes that I can’t identify. She almost looks nervous.
“Morning, Lovely. What time is it?”
“Just after ten.” Her voice is much softer now. “How are you feeling?” .
“As shook as a hand at mass.”
Layla giggles. “What does that even mean?”
“It’s an Irish saying for very hungover.” Slowly, I roll from my stomach to my side and face her. “We’ve a good amount of terms and lines related to drinking. Shocking, I know.”
Her lips tip up in a smile, but she doesn’t say anything. Lifting a hand, I trace my fingertips over her cheek.
