I reach for my phone on my nightstand, but it’s not there. Then I remember undoing my skirt and letting it fall to the floor before pulling on my pajamas. I allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness and scour the floor for my skirt. I actually don’t see my clothes anywhere at all.
My phone buzzes again, and this time, I see the screen light up on the top of my dresser. Groaning, I crawl out of bed and grab my phone to check a missed text message from my mom, wondering if I want to go for lunch with her and my dad. They’re even offering to come and pick me up.
Food is really the last thing on my mind right now; I need to get rid of this headache first. Though, after that, I know I’ll need hangover food, and I bet I can convince them to go to IHOP.
I quickly return my mother’s text and ask if I can choose the restaurant before setting my phone down and opening my bedroom door. Across the hall, I can see that Greyston’s door is wide open and his bed is made. I poke my head out into the hall and listen, not hearing anything. The silence suffocates me, and I fear he’s avoiding me, which makes me feel queasy. I realize just how hypocritical that sounds since that’s exactly what I did last night when he knocked on my bedroom door and I pretended to be asleep.
My phone vibrates again, and I read my mom’s response; they’ll be here in about an hour to pick me up for lunch. My choice of restaurant.
Knowing I don’t have very long, I head into my bathroom to quickly brush my teeth so I can go downstairs to grab a cup of coffee and maybe a piece of toast to help the light stomachache I’ve got. I stop just inside the bright bathroom when I spot a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol sitting next to my sink, and I smile at how thoughtful Greyston is.
Maybe I’m over-reacting about all of this.
I take two of the pills from the bottle and pick up the glass, noticing that the water is still chilled. This can only mean he’d been in my room not too long ago.
After taking them, I go about ridding my mouth of the foul after-taste of alcohol, coffee, and sleep. Looking into the mirror, I cringe at the sight of my hair; it’s an absolute mess, so I take a minute to remove the hairpins and brush it, cursing at myself for not doing it the night before. Once it’s looking a little less like I should be doing the walk of shame, I wash my face and button my flannel shirt before heading downstairs for coffee.
I glance into the living room to see that Greyston isn’t there. I poke my head through the basement door, and I hear nothing. Finally, I enter the kitchen, and he’s still nowhere to be found. The smell of fresh coffee greets me, though, and as usual, sitting next to the coffee maker is an empty mug. I pour myself some coffee, adding only a small splash of cream and sugar so as not to upset my stomach, and pop a slice of bread into the toaster.
While I wait for my toast to pop, the sliding door opens, forcing me to spin around, my heart racing wildly. He looks fantastic in a pair of slightly worn-out blue jeans and a grey long-sleeved t-shirt. He hasn’t shaved, which then brings back the memory of how his stubble felt beneath my hand right before I kissed him. The memory makes me blush, and I have to avert my eyes from him.
He doesn’t seem surprised to see me. “Hey,” he says softly.
“Morning,” I reply. “Where…? I mean, I didn’t…”
His hesitance radiates off him. “I’ve been out on the patio,” he tells me, answering the question I couldn’t finish. “Thinking.”
With a slight nod, I offer him a smile, knowing full well that if I open my mouth, I’ll spill my guts to him, and I’m just not ready to deal with that yet. Before he can see the deepening blush that is slowly staining my cheeks, I return my gaze to the toaster.
“How are you feeling?”
I know I can’t refuse to answer a direct question without coming across as rude or hostile, so I shrug, still focusing rather intently on the red elements inside the toaster. “Physically? Not as bad as I probably should,” I reply.
Through the corner of my vision, I see him approach. “Juliette…”
I turn, pleading with my eyes not to bring up what happened last night. My stomach feels uneasy, and my heart continues to race when he reaches out and takes my hand in his. I glance down at the contact, watching his thumb move back and forth over the back of my hand—just like it did last night…right before I left with Erik.
“About last night,” I say, speaking up before he can. “I’m so sorry. I guess I was just feeling kind of down on myself after finding out that yet another guy was able to pull the wool over my eyes. I was looking for a little…validation?” I stop talking immediately, because I know I’m not making this any better. I glance up at him through my lashes to find him smiling. I want to believe that he’s harboring no ill will toward me, but somehow I’m doubtful.