Page 58 of Wreckage and Rain

Colt

I open my eyes and I don't know where I am.

The ceiling is unfamiliar. White stucco, recessed lighting, the kind of finish you only see in hotels. There is gray-yellow morning light coming through a window I don't remember walking past. The bed is too big. The duvet is too white.

I am shirtless.

I am wearing my pants. My belt. My shoes are off. Socks still on.

There's a pressure on my chest that won't lift.

I look down.

Cheyenne. Asleep. Her arm draped across my chest. Her hair on my shoulder. She is wearing a slip or a camisole, I can't tell. Her makeup from last night is smudged under her eyes.

I don't move. I can't move. My body is half in cement. My head is splitting. My mouth tastes like pennies and panic.

What did I do.

What did I do.

What did I do.

I don't remember leaving the bar. I don't remember coming to a hotel. I don't remember walking into this room and I don't remember whether anything happened in this bed. I haven't lost a night since college. I had three drinks. Maybe four. I didn't drink enough to lose hours.

But I lost hours.

Slowly, I lift her arm off me. I don't want to wake her up or talk to her right now. I don't know what happened and I am freaking the fuck out.

She makes a soft sound. Doesn't wake.

I get off the bed in stages. Sit up. Wait for the room to stop tilting. Stand. Wait for it to stop tilting again. I find my shirt onthe floor at the foot of the bed. My jacket on a chair. My phone, dead, on the nightstand.

The bathroom is huge. My stomach starts to pitch and I rush to make it to the toilet before I begin throwing up.

I sit on the cold floor with my back against the bathtub and I press my palms against my eyes and I try to make a single complete memory of last night.

I can't.

I had my arm around Cheyenne. I know that much. Her face by my cheek. Cameras flashing. Her falling, or pretending to fall, into the back of the limo.

Did anything happen in that bed. My head goes into my hands and I get a fistful of hair and hold on. What the fuck did I do. What the actual fuck did I do last night. I don't know. That's the thing sitting on my chest. I don't know and I have to tell her something.

My pants are still on. My belt is still buckled. The bed didn't look slept in on her side, but it didn't look unslept either. There are no signs that I had sex with Cheyenne. I should be able to tell. A man should be able to tell what happened with his own body. My pants are still on, I don't see a condom wrapper or anything like that anywhere.

I stand up. Wash my face. Look at myself in the mirror. The man looking back at me looks like a guilty stranger and a man who is going to throw up again.

I find my shoes.

I leave the hotel room without waking her. I don't know if leaving is the right thing. I just know I can't be in that room when she opens her eyes, because if she says good morning I will lose it.

I take the elevator down. I don't look at the lobby. I get in a cab. I give the driver my home address. I stare out the window and watch Charleston wake up. Maybe nothing happened. Maybeshe was just there. None of my thoughts give me any comfort. I don't know what I am going to tell Summer, but I need to see her. I need to tell her what happened, and that nothing happened. Fuck, I just remembered she isn't home yet. She is still in Savannah on her book tour. The one that I flaked out on. I am a shitty person.

***

I pay the driver. I get out. I walk to the front door. My hand is shaking on the key.

The house is too quiet.