"Same," I say again. "Except for the whole making out part."
"So you went home with a guy and … passed out?"
"Pretty much."
"Well, that's disappointing."
I let out a light laugh as I stand up and stretch, setting my phone down to let it finish charging. "Yeah, it made for one hell of an awkward morning. So tell me about Pat-Pete-Parker-whatever."
She shifts the subject, going back to talking about whatever his name is, as I gather some clothes to take a shower. I don't mention Naz any more. She'll have more questions-questions I don't have answers for.
"Ugh, I have one hell of a hangover," Melody says eventually. "How are you feeling?"
"Like hell," I say. "I think there was something in one of those drinks last night … a roofie or something. I don't know. It's fuzzy."
She looks at me, horrified. "That's scary. Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure." I hesitate. "I think it was the last one … the one you got from whatever-his-name is."
"No way," she says. "He was totally a gentleman. It must've been another."
"Yeah," I mumble. "Maybe, but be careful, you know, just in case."
"Are you sure you can't come?" Melody asks, exaggeratedly frowning as she sits across from me, clothes piled high all around her-this time on purpose. An empty suitcase sits on the floor by her feet, waiting to be filled.
"I'm sure," I say. "If I could, I would, but I can't."
"If it's about money, I-"
Before she can even finish that sentence, my eyes narrow and I cut her off. "I can't go."
She makes a face at me, somewhere between annoyance and pity. I know she's feeling both. It's Sunday, and tomorrow is the official start of spring break. With midterms behind us, we have nothing to worry about until classes start up again next week. Melody's off to Aruba with some old friends from high school-girls I've met but wouldn't recognize if I ever ran into them on the street. Melody's the only one in her group that stayed in New York for college.
So while she's at the beach, celebrating freedom and soaking up the sun, I'll be here alone. It is about the money, yeah … I could never afford to keep up with her lifestyle, even if she insists on including me whenever possible. I'm gracious when she buys dinner, or drags me for a night on the town, but I draw the line at a Caribbean vacation. There's a thin line between accepting help and being a charity case, a line I felt myself toeing earlier in the weekend.
But it's more than that, too.
I can't go.
"I told you I don't have a passport."
"Well, I told you we could go to Florida instead."
"And I told you I won't let you change your plans because of me," I say. "So go, have fun. I'm just going to hang around here, maybe panhandle, you know, make a little money."
She laughs as she starts tossing her clothes in her bag. "You don't want to go see your mom?"
"No, I'll see her in a few weeks for Easter."
Melody finishes packing, cramming more clothes into suitcases than I think I even own, before she walks over and flops down on my bed beside me. She lets out a deep, theatrical sigh, wrapping her arms around me. "I'll miss you, Kissimmee! Don't have too much fun without me."
I laugh at the nickname. She overheard my mother say it one day and completely ran with it. "I'll try not to. Might be difficult, though, with all this excitement going on around here. You know … empty halls and vacant classrooms and closed libraries."
"Sounds like Heaven," she says. "Too bad I can't stay."
"Yeah, too bad. You're gonna miss all the fun."
Melody plants a playful sloppy kiss on my cheek before getting her stuff in order, shoving a few last minute things into her bags. She's ready just as her phone rings, alerting her that a car is waiting down by the curb to take her to the airport.
"I'll call you every day," she says. "Every hour."
"Please don't," I reply. "My mother already does that."
With a laugh, she's out the door, hauling her luggage with her. To be honest, I don't expect her to call at all.
Once she's gone, the door clicking closed behind her, I toss my book aside and lay back on my bed.
A whole week.
Seven days of nothingness.
Melody hasn't even been gone a minute and I'm already bored out of my mind.
I clean, and read, and clean some more, and read some more, before my stomach starts growling. I grab a pack of Ramen noodles from the cabinet in the room, making my way to the small kitchen everyone in the suite shares. Most of the building is empty, save for a few wayward students like me who stayed behind. I fill a pot with water and put it on the stove. As I'm waiting on the water to boil, I pull out my phone and scroll through it to call my mom.
No answer.
Sighing, I leave a quick message. For someone who freaks out when I don't answer, she sure sends my calls to her answering machine a lot. Hanging up, I lean back against the counter and stare at the screen, my eyes drifting to the name beneath hers.
Naz.
I could call him. I mean, he put his number in my phone and told me to call him. He wouldn't do that if he didn't really want me to, right?
But what would I say? Hey, remember me, girl you picked up from the sidewalk, drunk as a skunk, high off her ass without even knowing it? You know, the one you felt obligated to take home with you because there was nowhere else to take her? Yeah, her, the one you bought breakfast for the next morning, the one who didn't offer to pay for her own because she didn't have a penny in her pocket?
You remember her?
I'm so, so sorry if you do.
Groaning, I cut my eyes at the pot of water. There are only a few tiny bubbles on the bottom. It needs to hurry up.
My gaze goes back to the phone, back to his name. It would be rude not to call, though, wouldn't it? He helped me, after all.
Another glance at the pot. Still not boiling. Dammit.
When I turn back to my phone again, my finger hits his name. I press the call button before I can talk myself out of it, because I know I will if given the chance.
I bring the phone up to my ear and listen. The first ring seems exaggerated, like the sound echoes through my body, twisting my insides into knots. I feel like I'm going to puke and need to sit down, my eyes darting around the kitchen but the chair that's usually in here is gone.
Goddamn thieves.
I'm shaky, and edgy, and about to hang up when the line clicks, shutting off mid-ring. There's a pause of silence that feels like it drags on forever before his voice breaks through. "Hello."
Oh God, oh God, oh God … what was I thinking?
"Uh, hey … it's, uh … "
"Karissa."
My name sounds like Heaven from his lips as he says it in his rough, low tone. I want to ask him to say it again, and again, and again. "You remember."
"I do," he says. "How are you?"
"Better." A lot better than when he last saw me. "I just wanted to, you know, thank you."
"I'm glad you called. I thought maybe you lost your phone again."
"No, I still got it," I say. "For now, anyway."
He lets out a laugh, the sound making me smile, easing some of my anxiety. "Good."
"So yeah, like I said, I wanted to thank you again, for everything you did … you know, at the club, and the ride, and my phone. I appreciate it, really, and if I can ever repay you-"
"You can."
I stall at those words. "I can?"
"Yes," he confirms.
"Uh, how much?" I ask. "I don't have much money."
He laughs again, this time a little louder. "I don't want your money, Karissa. I have plenty of my own."
"Then what do you want?"
"You."
He says the lone word so confidently that I just stare straight ahead, unable to process it. "Me?"
"Let me take you to dinner," he says. "Then we'll call it even."
"I … I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll be ready in thirty minutes."
"Now?" I ask incredulously.
He wants to take me to dinner right now?
"Why not?" he asks. "No better time than the present."
I can name plenty of times better than now … times that don't include me wearing Oscar the Grouch pajama pants and fuzzy pink slippers, my hair a scraggly ball on top of my head. "I don't know."
"I'll tell you what," he says. "In half an hour, I'm going to pull up at the entrance to the parking garage, right where I dropped you off. If you're there, I'll take you wherever you want to go. If you're not, I'll go on my way."