Page 36 of The False Flat

I winced as my head made contact with the headboard. My eyelids closed, and as I waited for the pain medication to kick in, I felt myself falling asleep.

My neck ached—my head had fallen into an unnatural angle—when I woke up to the sound of a text. The glowing red numbers on the clock next to my bed made my eyeballs quiver as they told me it was eight p.m. The little gray bubble on my phone held a message from Chad, telling me he’d be getting in late tonight and would Uber over, so I didn’t have to pick him up from the airport. He said something cryptic, too, about his gift arriving before he did.

I’d completely forgotten about Chad because it didn’t seem like a Friday night. I wished he’d been delayed until tomorrow. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. At least I’d have the next two hours alone.

I downed another two ibuprofen and shivered. Lingering tendrils of the day swept over my skin like a spiderweb, making gooseflesh rise up on my arms.

Coffee, I thought. Maybe another cup of tea.

The air-return vent rustled in the hallway outside my bedroom door, but other than that, the house was quiet until I maneuvered down the stairs. Each creaky board moaned under the pressure of my foot. The last one was so loud that it sounded like it said, Hey there. But my temporary amusement was replaced with panic when I realized the words hadn’t been from a stair tread but had come from the man sitting on a couch I didn’t own.

The man and his mustache.

CHAPTER 16

LIFE REALIZATION #8: TALKING TO A MUSTACHE IS STRANGELY THERAPEUTIC

For five solid seconds, I thought the whole scene was a mirage: the man, the couch, the elaborate house of cards on the floor. I needed distance from Grant because now he was in my mirages. Was this a normal side effect of a concussion, seeing people and couches that weren’t there?

“I didn’t know if you’d be coming back down or not. I told myself I’d leave by ten p.m. if you didn’t.”

Okay, this was a full-on audio-visual hallucination.

I threw my phone at my mind’s projection, hoping to watch the figment fade away, but Grant caught it midair.

“Umm. Did I do something wrong?”

Why couldn’t he have been a random intruder holding me at gunpoint?

I patted my hair. “Grant! It’s you.” Thank God I’d had that keratin treatment; otherwise the relaxed curls would’ve been unruly spirals, rendering me ridiculous.

“Did you expect someone else? I told you I was staying.”

Had he?

Damn, I didn’t have on makeup or a bra. I turned around and went back upstairs, hoping he was far enough away not to realize what a mess I was. Likely too late for that. “I’ll be right back,” I called over my shoulder. “Forgot something.”

“No problem. I’ll be here.”

I needed to think, and I couldn’t think with my hair wild, my face naked, and my nipples poking against my shirt like a porn star’s. I conditioned my curls, not great, but it would have to do, and fastened my bra much too tight. Then I did my “natural” look with a small handful of products instead of my usual pile.

I came back downstairs after a record-breaking remake of myself, with a concussion, I might add, and instantly asked, “Where did you get that couch?”

“A couple guys delivered it right after you went upstairs. Did I accept delivery of the wrong couch?” He rubbed his facial hair in concern. “They said it was for Chad Gwinn.” He added, “You look angry. I probably should’ve—”

I shook my head, regretted the movement, then took the phone he was extending and tried to sound pleasant. “Must be the gift he was talking about. I think he’s sick of sitting on the floor.”

“That’s nice.”

Was it? I found it irritating. He’d picked the piece without consulting me.

I moved to Chad’s couch because my muscles were threatening to throw their collective hands up and leave me to flop on the floor. The cushion gave only slightly, which fit. It was like Chad, the perfect mix of good looking yet stiff and professional. I slid to the floor in front of the Chad-couch. Chadouch. Chaouch.

Grant leaped over as if to catch me.

“I’m okay. I want to be on the floor.”

He nodded as if my preference for the hard walking surface seemed reasonable.