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Wyatt
Tilly and I awoke to the sound of her front door slamming and two people laughing.
“Morning,” Tilly whispered from the other side of the bed.
“Hey,” I said, rolling over to face her, realizing I was on top of the comforter. I’d been too drunk to even get under the covers, and I was still in the clothes I’d worn the night before. My head was pounding, and it felt like I’d slept with cotton balls in my mouth. I looked down at my shirt; there was a huge green stain on the fabric.
“What the hell were in those drinks last night?” I asked, pressing my finger to my temple.
Tilly yawned. “What do you mean?”
“I’m hungover. And I never get hangovers. This is brutal.”
Tilly sat up and immediately stabilized herself by pressing her hand into the bed. “Whoa. Yeah, um, not sure. My neighbors have a thing for Everclear.”
“Ugh,” I said, scooting closer to her and placing my arm on top of her thighs. “What time is it?”
“Noon,” she said, pausing to listen to the voices in the background. “Is that…Dutch in my apartment? Wyatt, why is Dutch still in my apartment?”
“You don’t remember? He and Ronnie hooked up last night.”
“Wait, they did?” She scratched her head.
“Uh, yeah, big time.”
“Holy crap,” she said with another yawn. “I remember leaving Henry’s party to jump your bones, and then everyone showed up. I remember Jell-O shots—”
“Lots of them,” I said with a laugh.
“Dancing, a rousing rendition of “American Pie”…and oh, that’s right. They were all over each other, weren’t they? My best friend, who’s grossed out by stoners, hooked up with one.”
“Yep, and clearly, he stayed the night.”
“Oh, God. I’ll have to buy a new couch, won’t I?” Tilly joked as she stretched her arms out wide. “I love that couch, Wyatt.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“I don’t even want to think about what they did on my poor, sweet sofa.”
“Then stop thinking about it,” I said, patting her leg.
“I can’t handle this information without caffeine in my system. I need coffee. Stat.”
“I’ll make some, Dr. Hamilton,” I teased, sitting up in bed and doing my best to ignore the tilting of the room in my peripheral vision.
Yep, definitely hungover.
“I’ll come with you,” she said, climbing out of bed. “Are you hungry? I smell sugar.”
“How can you smell sugar?”
“I just can.”
“I always forget about your crazy sense of smell.”
“It’s a gift…and a curse. I don’t want to smell sugar right now; I want to smell coffee.”
“Whoa,” I said with a laugh, my voice hoarse as my stomach rumbled. “My stomach’s a little off. Fucking Everclear.”
