‘You need the hair of the dog.’ ‘I can’t stomach it.’ I counter gently. I’m not referring to the drink. I’m referring to being surrounded by all these couples so sickeningly in love that I have to question every single one of my life choices since my father told me I was to marry Anthony De Courcy. And I can’t stomach being in such close proximity with the man I crave like a goddamn fucking drug. The man whose t-shirt I stole and tucked beneath my pillow for later. The man who haunts my dreams.
