Page 65 of The Fast Track

I guzzle the full bottle of water someone—probably Drunk Me, in a spark of brilliance—left on the nightstand, then stumble toward the living room, past the after-party jeans lying on the braided rug and the sneakers Drunk Me for some reason thought belonged on the top of the wardrobe.

“Mom?” I open my bedroom door.

Except instead of my mother back from London, it’s Cameron. Standing in the middle of our kitchen-dining area, looking freshly showered and like he went to bed at nine o’clock when some hazy hint of recollection makes me certain he stayed out as late as I did.

“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out more hostile than I intend. Him smiling down at Chloe is the last concrete memory I have.

“No need to bite my head off.” He rolls his eyes. “Cameto drop this.” He tosses a McDonald’s bag onto our kitchen peninsula. The sight of fast food makes me realize how ravenous I am.

“Wait…,” I say, hangover brain slowly processing that none of this is normal. Not the delicious scent of sausage and hash browns wafting through the apartment, not Cameron leaning against our kitchen partition like he’s been here before. “What are you doing here? Did I… did we…?” Scenarios, equally terrifying and thrilling, flash through my mind.

He sighs. “You don’t remember vomiting on my trousers, do you?”

“No way. You’re lying,” I say automatically, but as the words come out of my mouth, the sharp memory of my stomach clenching and unclenching, the relief of having released their contents somewhere—anywhere—comes back to me.

I want to crawl back into bed and never come out again. Drunk Me was supposed to be having so much fun that Sober Me wouldn’t have to notice Cameron and Chloe flirting.

Clearly, Drunk Me overshot.

“Trust me, if I was going to lie, it’d be about something a lot more exciting.” He turns to go.

“Hold on.” I reach out and grab the edge of his soft cotton sleeve. “Why did you bring me this? It’s, like, my favorite breakfast ever, so thank you, but why?”

He glares down, his eyes softening slightly. “That’s what your drunk arse said at three a.m.” At my confused look, he sighs. “After you threw up? We split a cab with Pat. Youwere banging on and on about how much you loved Egg McMuffins—sausage, not bacon—the entire way back.”

Half of me is relieved he didn’t end up going home with Chloe or any of the other girls circling him last night. The other half is horrified.

“Do you remember anything?” He looks exasperated, borderline amused now.

“Not after the third shot, no.”

“What am I going to do with you? Do you want me to enlighten you?”

“Maybe after I get some food in my stomach.” I unwrap the Egg McMuffin and sink my teeth in. The salt and grease taste better than anything I’ve ever had, including the gala food, which was catered by a three-Michelin-star restaurant from London. “This is heavenly,” I moan between bites.

I hoover down both my McMuffin and the accompanying hash brown before stopping to take a gulp of orange juice. It’s only then that I notice Cameron’s just sitting on one of the stools at the counter, gaping at me.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Kwong, but I’ve never seen anyone destroy Maccy D’s like that before.”

I swallow my remaining mouthful. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. And I get the feeling he’s talking about a lot more than me gobbling McDonald’s like it’s my last meal on earth.

I cross my legs and sip the remaining OJ as daintily as Ican, trying my best to retain what’s left of my dignity.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what else happened?” Cameron’s still watching me.

“Do I want to know?” My instincts tell me Drunk Me succeeded in having fun, despite—or perhaps because of—the condition I found myself in this morning.

“You let down your hair big-time. At one point you were doing body shots off Sasha.”

The thought of physically touching Sasha anywhere, much less with my mouth, makes me want to throw up my entire breakfast combo. “You’re messing with me.”

“Alcohol has made people do stranger things.”

“I would know if I did. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to that jerk—if I did do body shots, my mouth would be covered in hives right now.” I make a duck face and puff out my lips grotesquely to emphasize the point.

“Lovely. Fine, no, you didn’t do body shots. But you were downing drinks with him like best mates at a stag do.” He shows me his phone, revealing a flash-blurry photo of me and Sasha, our arms draped around each other’s shoulders like besties while holding empty champagne glasses to the camera. I vaguely recall a game of never have I ever, played over the shouting-level volume of the music, dissolving eventually into some kind of big heart-to-heart.