ONE
Wake up.
I snuggle deeper into the blankets, trying to push away the voice in my head. Everything feels light and muffled, the edges of my brain lined with cotton balls. I cling to the last vestiges of a dream, holding on even though I can’t quite remember what it was or why it was so good.
You need to wake up.
With a sigh, I open my eyes.
The world takes its time coming into focus. First, I hear the traffic outside, slightly muted. Daylight flickers through the fluttering of my eyelashes. Too bright. A slight ache presses against the inside of my brain. I snuggle deeper into the pillow to ease it, squishing my eyes shut, but it doesn’t matter. I’m awake.
My mouth tastes like old sour wine and my throat is scratchy in a familiar way. I don’t remember drinking or vaping last night, but I must have been. The two usually go together for me. Normally I stay away from vaping or smoking, but there’s something about when I’m feeling loose and free that makes me want them. Did I go out last night? The last thing I remember is going to class yesterday. It must have been one hell of a party.
I thought I’d conquered drinking. I’ve avoided situations with alcohol for this very reason—blackouts aren’t a good sign, and I’ve had them, like, a lot.
The pillow beneath my head is soft and smells slightly spicy—like gingerbread. There’s a sweetness to it, vanilla and sunshine on clean skin. I could smell it all day. Taking a deep breath, I bury my face deeper in the soft flannel.
Wait. I don’t have flannel sheets on my bed.
Where am I?
I open my eyes wide. I’m at the edge of the bed, staring at a rug. A couple more inches and I’d be on the floor. I raise my head. The bookcase against the wall is filled with books that aren’t mine. An unfamiliar phone on the bedside table says it’s ten o’clock. As I roll onto my back, I realize I don’t recognize the room, or the boxers and T-shirt I’m wearing.
Or the guy asleep beside me.
Shit.
I sit up. He doesn’t stir. Confusion keeps me there, staring. I’m not afraid as I look at him. He’s actually kind of cute—if you like long, skinny guys with riotous curls and angular faces. I could cut myself on that jaw, or at least sharpen a pencil. He’s got an amazing profile.
I should be panicking, wondering where my clothes are. Planning my escape. Instead, I sit here, on this comfortable but messy bed, and watch a stranger sleep. I mean, I don’t know if I’m here by choice or if he brought me here while I was drunk. Did we have sex?
I’d like to believe I would remember that, but as I scour the recesses of my brain, I can’t. I have fuzzy memories of his smile, his laugh. But no bad feelings. That gingerbread smell is all him, I think. But I don’t freak out. Not again, I say in my head before giving it a rueful shake.
There’s a knock on the door. I turn my head as it opens. There’s a girl at the threshold. She’s tall and willowy—like a model—with long dark hair and wide blue eyes. She looks like she should be in a tampon commercial. Or toothpaste. Something where she has to flick her hair and smile a lot. She’s not wearing any makeup and her skin is perfect. I want to hate her, but when our gazes meet, I smile.
“Hey, girlie,” she says. “I thought you might be up.” She hands me a cup of coffee.
“Just,” I say. “Thanks.” I know her, but I don’t—like I met her in a dream or saw her on TV. I must have been way wasted last night. I take a sip. It’s good.
She smiles at the guy sprawled beside me. “Did he snore?”
Cradling the mug in my hands, I shake my head. “Nope. I think he talked, though.” Did he?
“It was nice of you to let him crash with you. He really would have slept on the floor.”
So, no sex, then. Probably? “That would have been ridiculous. This bed is huge.”
She nods, eyeing me strangely as I take a drink. “You okay?”
I nod. “Mm-hmm. Just a little groggy, y’know?”
“Yeah, sure.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, I’ll be in the kitchen if you want to join me for a vape.”
The last thing I want is to suck on a vape pod, but I don’t tell her that. She leaves the room, closing the door behind her. The second the latch clicks I’m off the bed and at the desk, pawing through the papers and notebooks to see if there’s anything that can help me figure out where I am.
This isn’t the first time something like this has happened to me, but it’s the first time I’ve come to in a place completely unfamiliar. Usually I’m at home or with Izzy. Safe, but confused and foggy. I stopped going to parties because of stuff like this. Obviously, I forgot that last night.
There’s an envelope addressed to Connor James on the desk. I assume that’s my bedmate. If that’s true, and the rest of the information is correct, then I’m on West 152nd Street in New York. At least I’m still in the city.
The room spins a little around me. There’s a noise in my head kind of like the crackle of static—the hum of a radio station turned down so low I can’t make out the words. I still don’t know how I got here. None of this is familiar. And yet … it’s not exactly completely strange? These people seem to know me. They haven’t chopped me into pieces or used my skin to make furniture. Not yet, anyway. More importantly, I feel comfortable with them. I still haven’t jumped into full-on panic mode. I feel safe, which is saying something, because a lot of times I don’t even feel safe at home.
Oh, shit. Mom. She’ll be worried if I didn’t call her last night. I always try to let her know if I’m going to stay out.
I glance around and spot my backpack on the floor. I squat down and grab my phone out of the front pocket.
“Fuck.” It’s dead. How can that be? It was fully charged yesterday after class. Unless I recorded the entire weekend on video, it should still have some juice. Then again, if I did record stuff, that will help me remember.
“You okay?” asks a gravelly voice.
I look up. He’s awake, sitting in the middle of the bed with his arms slung around his knees. He’s got a wicked case of bedhead and his eyelids are heavy, dragged down by the length and thickness of his eyelashes. My fingers twitch—I want to draw him. If ever there was a face that should be put to canvas, it’s his. He’s really, really beautiful.
Copyright © 2023 by Kate McLaughlin
