A tiny, hopeful smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I reach to pull him closer, and he brushes his mouth over mine in a soft, delicate kiss, letting out a little sigh as he pulls away.
“I like you a lot too, beautiful girl,” he murmurs, raising my hand to press his lips to the back of it. “But you’re very drunk. Let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”
I nod, snuggling back against the pillow as Michael’s hand caresses my arm. I feel my eyelids grow heavy and I drift off to sleep with a smile on my face.
30
I’m dead. That’s what this feeling is. It’s a familiar feeling, too.
I crack one eye open and wait for the pain to subside, but it doesn’t. I need painkillers and water, fast.
Peeling myself from the bed, I stand and wobble to the bathroom, stepping between discarded cups and party hats. Geoff has passed out on the couch, still wearing his party hat, snoring.
My head is pounding so hard I can barely stand. In the bathroom I manage to down a few painkillers, then I lower my mouth and drink straight from the faucet, trying to piece together the events of last night.
I know Michael was there. And Henry, I think. And I talked to Michael—well, of course I did. It would be weird if I hadn’t. What did we talk about? Something about… writing, maybe?
I stumble back through the living room and collapse onto my bed again, willing the painkillers to work faster.
There was dancing too, I think. Did Michael dance? Even in my hungover state, the thought of that makes me smile. I try to reach further back in my brain, to find another scrap of memory I can pull out into the light, but my thoughts fade away as I slip back into sleep.
Somehow, I sleep through until the afternoon. By the time I wake, I feel a bit better. I’ve still got a headache but it’s dialed down from a ten to a four. I’m going to need to eat something soon, though.
I roll over in bed and reach for my phone to check the time, surprised to find a text from several hours ago.
Michael: Good morning. How’s the head?
I stare at the screen for a second, waiting for my brain to catch me up. Last night… Michael…
But nothing is coming. Ugh, I’ll text him later. I need coffee.
Yawning, I toss my phone aside and climb out of bed. When I push the curtains to my nook open, I see that Geoff has attempted a quick tidy of the living room before leaving, bless him. Cat’s not home either, I notice as I pad down the hall. Maybe her and Geoff went out. Or maybe her date with Kyle went a lot better than she’d planned.
I manage to shower and get dressed, then head out for a coffee and something delicious to eat. I slide into my favorite table in the window at Beanie, with a massive latte and chocolate muffin in front of me. Perfect.
Nibbling on my muffin, I pull my phone out to see if I got any photos of last night. There’s loads of pictures I don’t remember taking, and I stop on an especially cute picture of Michael and I at the selfie corner with some of the silly props. I’ve got one of the mustaches on a stick and he’s wearing huge glasses. I smile at how happy we look, and as I flick through more pictures of us, fragments of last night start to piece themselves together in my brain.
Yes, Michael and I did dance together. It was fun, I recall with a giggle. And we flirted… yes, we flirted a lot. We talked about… kissing? I think we did. I might’ve even told him I wanted to kiss him. But I didn’t do it, of course, because—
Oh. Fuck.
A memory comes back to me, clear as day: the taste of pineapple and coconut, the slide of Michael’s tongue over mine. It’s so vivid, so visceral that I can taste it, and it sends a violent shiver through me.
More memories chase that one and my face heats with shame. Because I didn’t just kiss him, I threw myself at him. Oh God… I think I even tried to rip his clothes off. The poor guy! I was like a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth for him. I’m surprised he made it out alive.
Actually, that’s a good point… What happened? I know for certain we didn’t sleep together, so how did it end? Did he push me off him? Did I walk away?
Ha. That doesn’t seem likely. My self-control was clearly at an all-time low and I’m sure that, if he let me, I would’ve done every dirty thing I could imagine.
So what happened?
I scan the depths of my brain, groping about for clues, but come up empty-handed.
It doesn’t matter, anyway—there’s no excuse for me mauling him like that. As humiliating as it is, I need to apologize. And maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll volunteer the rest of the information. Then we can have a good laugh at drunk old Alex and put it behind us.
I consider going up to his place now to apologize, but as I polish off my muffin, nausea climbs the back of my throat. I’m getting serious morning-after-my-birthday flashbacks and I think I need to lie down again. I greatly overestimated my ability to be up and at ‘em today.
Abandoning my half-drunk coffee, I rise to my feet and hurry back home along the street. My head is pounding again by the time I push through the door, and I’m relieved to see Cat is still out and the apartment is quiet. I slump
