Chapter Eighteen
When Thea woke up the following morning, she was fairly certain she was dying. Her mouth was like cotton, her head pounded, and her stomach roiled. She stumbled to the bathroom and threw up the entire contents of her stomach, wishing like hell that she hadn’t been such an i***t last night.
Oh God, last night. What had even happened? She remembered Mittens trying to get her to talk about Anthony, and she remembered drinking that third—or fourth?—shot. How had she gotten home? Mittens must’ve taken her home, although she didn’t remember it at all.
After a shower and some toast and weak coffee, Thea lay down on her couch with a cold cloth on her forehead. She hadn’t gotten that drunk in a long time. She frowned, trying to remember the gaps in her memory. Something kept nig
