Page 5 of Level Up for Love

“Fuck you,” I say fondly. I’m slurring my words, but it’s hardly the alcohol at this point. Sleep fuzzes the edges of my vision. I feel deliciously wrung out and cozy with Wesley’s head curled on my shoulder. I don’t know if I want to sink into sleep or find out what’s under the thin layer of clothes he still has on. He hums a laugh into my sternum and—always the one to ruin a good time—begins to gently extricate himself from our tangle of limbs.

I make a groan of protest, but he smiles and shakes his head. “Just going to grab some water, okay?”

“Mm.”

Pillowing my cheek against my arm, I watch as Wesley bends to pluck his clothes from the floor. The flickering screen of our paused game makes his pale skin glow, highlighting the way his lips press into a thin line of discomfort as he slowly unpeels his shirt from his pants, both still damp from the rain.

I snort. Bending over, I fish a shirt and sweatpants from the drawers under my bed frame. “Here.”

“The second rescue of the night.”

He balls his clothes together and tosses them to the corner of the room. Given that he’s got only a couple inches on me, it’s amusing how well my clothes fit him. The black sweatpants hang loose from his hips where they’d normally hug my curves, while the faded blue fabric of the shirt stretches across his shoulders. He turns, and I see the shirt’s white logo, a twenty-sided die bracketed by two palm trees under the words Miami Dice, splayed across his chest. It was a gift from my dad, who found a local game store on one of his many business trips to Florida. I smirk seeing Wesley in it.

He stands over me and runs his fingers through my hair. I lean into his palm and shut my eyes again.

“I’ll bring you some water, too,” he says.

I probably need it, considering how much my head continues to swim. But it’s only a gentle churning, a current easing me to sleep. Music flares briefly as Wesley opens the door and steps into the hallway, fading to a murmur as the door snicks shut.

I don’t know how much time passes before I wake up again, curled to one side of an otherwise empty bed. The sunlight isn’t its usual gentle glow from my window but two bright knives shoved straight into my eyeballs. I don’t know if it’s the hangover or dehydration—probably both. I need—

Water.

Confused, I frown and briefly wonder if I dreamed the whole night up. But there’s no ignoring the tangled sheets at the foot of my bed, the pile of now-dry clothes thrown into the corner, or the still-flickering screen of our paused game.

Icy realization slides cold fingers down the length of my spine.

Rage first: Surely he wouldn’t have. This would be low, even for him. Surely I’ve misunderstood.

Then, sour bitterness: I should have known better.

I’m out of bed in an instant, shoving my legs through a pair of shorts and my head through a hoodie. I throw the door open, following the path Wesley would have taken out of my room, through the hallway, around the couches and the dancing bodies in the living room, and into the kitchen. Wearing my clothes. Had he winked at his friends? Had Owen tried to talk to him? Would Nali have accused him of murdering me and stealing my stuff, since the last thing in the world she would have believed is that we’d—

The living room’s a mess, but it’s empty, save for the bundle of blankets on the couch where Owen or Eddie sometimes crash after a rowdy night. Owen is alone in the kitchen now, heating up a Hot Pocket in the microwave. He turns to me, and the pity and slight betrayal in his eyes has me feeling immediately sick.

“He left hours ago,” he says.

“Oh,” I say.

Into the silence that fills the kitchen, the microwave beeps three times.

I never hear from Wesley Locke again.