Page 73 of All The Ways to Miss You

The blur continues until I wake to thundering music. I wince in pain. My forehead pounds in time with the thumping of a song by the Clash. My hangover rages. I wipe drool from my cheek and discern enough of my surroundings to understand I slept in my own bed—miracle one.

With achy, half-functioning limbs, I stumble out of my bedroom toward the music. I grab my ears as I near the source, a pair of speakers hooked to an iPhone sitting on the kitchen island. Miracle two: turning off the music.

“Morning, SpongeBob.”

Still only half-alert, I turn my head to the annoying source of happiness. It’s Cait, bright and chipper, no doubt because she woke me. She’s carrying a box toward her room while eyeing my shorts. To my dismay, I’m wearing my SpongeBob boxers.

“What the hell time is it?” I rub my burning eyes with the heels of my palms.

“Five a.m.,” she sings.

“Fuck me.” I’ve been asleep for three hours, tops.

My head falls to the counter, landing on my folded arms. I’m struggling to keep my body upright over wobbly knees. When I’ve recovered enough energy to move again, I make my way down the hall and stop at her room. For support, I lean against the door frame.

When I shield my eyes from the light, I can see. She’s arranged her bed and dresser, and filled her closet. It looks like she’s lived here for years. She must have been here all night, moving in.

“No music at five a.m.,” I croak.

“Really?” She cranks her head in a sassy way, making her ponytail spill over one shoulder the way I like it. “Because when I left yesterday, you made it clear there were no rules, and to me, that sounds like a rule.”

Her challenge should piss me off, but it only turns me on. I may still be drunk, but I love good banter. Wanting to bug her, I cross the threshold in a zombie shuffle into her dreaded private space. When I reach her made-up bed, complete with frills, I free-fall onto her mattress face-first, my arms and legs spread eagle.

With my face smooshed into her pillow, I say, “You’re right. You caught me. No rules.”

Now I’m the one smiling because I can imagine her face—ticked. I’m in her room, invading her personal space, and in her business. Point for me!

I wake a few hours later, snuggled with one of her pillows. It smells like her, sugary and so delicious, it makes my mouth water. My hangover has somewhat subsided, but the sound of a hammer banging on the wall makes my eye twitch. There’s still music playing, but at a reasonable sound level. What’s with all the ’80s music?

Rolling over on my side, I find Cait hanging a pinboard above her desk. She balances on one foot to reach it. The muscles in her legs flex tight and strong. They must be toned from the running. They’re so smooth; all I can think about is sliding my hands over them. My dick flexes.

She methodically adds items to the board. After she’s done, several photos and quotes of chick stuff form a collage across the surface with sayings like Love, Happiness, and Success.

“What the hell is that?” I crane my neck and scowl.

“A vision board.” She doesn’t even glance over her shoulder, like she knew I was awake and watching her this entire time.

“Oh jeez, you’re one of those?” I drop my head back onto the pillow. I’m not ready to be upright.

“If by saying one of those you mean focused, goal oriented, and driven, then yes.” She strings white fairy lights around the edges of the frame and turns them on. They flicker once and sparkle.

“Yep, you’re one of those.” I roll over to stare at the ceiling, which has a poster on it that says Choose Happy.

“Well, I could call you one of those too.” She faces me with a hand on her hip.

“I’m not the one making wishes on a pinboard.”

“But you are one of those college losers only interested in getting blitzed out of his mind every night.”

I lift myself on both elbows and glare. “If by saying I’m one of those college losers you mean that I’m social, popular, and capable of having fun, then you would be right. But at least I’m not building a shrine to myself,” I say, mocking her sassy tone.

“Is that so?” Her lips twist.

“Do you see me hanging Christmas lights over a pinboard that reads, Beer, Party, and Friends?”

“No, but there’s a fancy pyramid of beer cans in the corner of your room, and at least one monstrous mound of chunky vomit on your bed.”

The visual makes me throw up a little in my mouth, which is how I know she’s telling the truth. I swallow it back but then blanch at the acrid taste. When the hell did I do all that? So much for adulting.