Me drunk. Ben carrying me. Me vomiting. Ben sleepinginmy bed.
The images are hazy, blurred—I can’t remember much of what I said, what we talked about—but I do know Ben brought me home. The pit in my stomach all but guarantees I’ve said incriminating things.
And now he’s in my kitchen. Making or drinkingcoffee.
My headache is threatening to shut my brain down, so I swallow thetwo Advil I spot on my nightstand. Maybe I can just stay in my room until he gets the hint and leaves. It seems like a viable option.
I pull the sheets over my head and hide for a full minute. Two. I can’t really breathe. I’m hyperventilating. Eventually I poke my head out and hear the clinking of dishes.Yep, he’s still here.I’m going to have to man up. Woman up. Whatever.
I creep to my door and peek out. I see nothing. I open the door a little wider, slip into the hall, and peep into the kitchen. He must hear me because he instantly turns my way.
“Morning. How are you feeling?”
He’s all smiles, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Oh God—he’s a morning person. Of course he is. By this time, he probably would have run ten miles and caught his breakfast with his bare hands.
“Oh, uh. Um. Fine.” I pause. “So you actually are here. That wasn’t a dream.”
He chuckles as he gives me a once-over. I probably look like the Crypt Keeper. I cower farther into the hallway in shame.
“You need to eat something. Last night you said you hadn’t eaten.”
At just the mention of food, my stomach turns over. “Oh, I—I don’t think so. Need to eat, I mean. I just. Um, need to take a shower.”
I’m stuttering like a kid on her first day of kindergarten. I back away, fleeing down the hallway to the bathroom.
I lock the door behind me, turn on the shower, and crumple onto the closed toilet lid, cradling my pounding head in my hands. What am I going to do about this? How can I get him out of my apartment? I’ve embarrassed myself so epically, I will never leave this bathroom. It is now, literally, a panic room. I stare at my shower curtain as more of last night’s memories come flooding back, this time of my vomiting and his gentle hair tying. I groan miserably.
There’s a light rap on the door. “Kate?”
I jump a foot. “What!” I shout.Dial it down, Kate.“Um, yes?” I say, a bit more demurely.
“Are you okay?” A pause. “I can leave if you want.”Praise Jesus!
“Oh... well, okay. You can leave if you want. I don’t care. Whatever. I just—I need to shower.”Please, for the love of all that is holy, be gone by the time I get out.
Another pause. “All right, well, I’ll just finish making you breakfast. You don’t have to eat it, but you really should get something in your stomach.”
My belly growls a bit. Now I’m hungry? Why am I so all over the place? My body is a traitorous wench.
“Okay,” I call. I watch the shadows from his feet retreat from the door.
I throw myself into the shower, taking an extra-long time to wash and condition my hair. I shave my legs. I let the water stream onto my head endlessly in a pointless attempt to wash away my disgrace. When I’m done, I’ve steamed up the bathroom so completely I can barely breathe. I wrap myself in a towel and crack open the door, listening. I don’t hear anything.
I make a beeline for my bedroom and slam the door. I throw on a pair of my comfiest yoga pants and an old, soft V-neck tee, then brush my hair out slowly, wincing at the tender spot on the back of my head. Only I am talented enough to make a hangover worse by ensuring my head pounds in the frontandback.
I feel halfway human again, my headache dulled some, thanks to the Advil. I don’t look quite as horrifying, though I have dark circles under my eyes and my face is still leached of color. When I scan the floor, I notice his shoes are missing and breathe a deep sigh of relief. He must have left.
I open my door a crack and listen, hearing nothing. I’m satisfied thathe’s gone, so I open the door fully and walk into the kitchen. A plate has been laid out with a piece of buttered toast, scrambled eggs, and a glass of ginger ale. I bend over and inhale. It smells heavenly.
“You’re looking better.”
I yelp in fright, peering through the opening of my kitchenette to the living room.
Ben’s sitting on my couch—which I now recall with a sinking feeling was the site of vomiting episode number one—sipping leisurely on a mug of coffee. He looks entirely too comfortable and familiar in my apartment.
I place my hand over my thumping heart and sag against the counter. “Jesus. I thought you’d left.”
“Apparently.”
