We had just started seeing each other. I remember it so clearly, it had just been over a week - 9 days to be exact. I was very new at the whole serious, adult relationship thing. And also, amazed by the charming guy who had walked into my life and turned me into a mush fest.
Anyway, I was out with the girls, just trying to keep up with the ladies night tradition we had started when we were all single. It was tougher now that we all had boyfriends - but no, of course, that’s no excuse. So, like clockwork, we all met at our favorite bar, ready to talk (and dance) our hearts out.
What we ended up doing was drink until we couldn’t walk, though. Okay, not all of us, but 2 out of 5 and I was part of the 2, obviously. My surprisingly sober best friend dropped me home and helped me open the door since I was pretty wasted. I don’t remember if I was noisy or not, but no one at home woke up so I suppose it couldn’t have been too bad. I grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchen and walked into my room - but that’s when my energy ran out. I sat down on the floor, next to the door and tried to think myself to sobriety.
It’s safe to say that that didn’t work. Ten minutes later, when my best friend called to check on me, all I could tell her was to call my boyfriend up and tell him to call me. Why I couldn’t just call him… I don’t know.
‘Are you sure you want to talk to him right now, babe? I mean, isn’t it just better to wait until morning?’
‘NO! Just call him, okay? And tell him I’m drunk and that he needs to call me now.’
‘But it’s almost 3 in the morning! He hasn’t even met me yet, how can I call him?!’
‘Fineeee. I’ll call him tomorrow. I’m gonna be sick, okay bye.’ I hung up. Not only because I was going to be sick (a little) but because she was just wasting time. I decided to call him myself.
He answered on the third ring, ‘Hello’
I didn’t answer. His voice suddenly sent a bunch of tingly feelings through my stomach - which, in hindsight, probably didn’t help how I was feeling.
‘Riya? Are you there? Have you reached home?’
And then the other vomit started - the word vomit.
‘I love you.’ I blurted first. When he didn’t reply immediately, I continued. ‘Yeah. I’m home. I’m feeling a bit sick. But I had to talk to you… I’m sorry if I woke you up… And it’s probably the worst timing and all that. But I really, really, really think I love you. Like, really. Not think. I do. I love you.’
By the end of my eloquent speech, I was slurring and lying on the floor again. But there was still more to say so I cut him off when he started to speak with, ‘Don’t say anything okay. I needed to tell you before I passed out. So now I’m going to sleep. Bye!’
He chuckled and said ‘Goodnight, sweetheart. I’ll wake you up for work tomorrow morning.’
And that’s all I remember of that night.
But then when I woke up the next day… It all came back in bits and pieces to me. Like the hangover I had wasn’t enough… I had to deal with total and complete embarrassment. He took it quite well though - he didn’t freak out or anything. But he did pull my leg, a LOT, for the next…week, I think.
That’s when he went out with the boys for a few drinks, got totally drunk, and called me to tell me that he loved me. And, I guess, the story of our first ‘I love you’s was appropriate for us - we had, after all, met in a bar.
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