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“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” I pretend but not well enough because he’s grinning like a fool. And so am I.
The movie starts, and it’s not long before my eyelids grow heavy. I don’t remember when my eyes actually slipped shut, but when I open them again, there’s light streaming in through my window, and there’s no movie playing.
Shit it's already morning?
I groan as a stabbing pain slices through my head. When I look next to me, Holden’s still sleeping.
We must’ve fallen asleep during the movie. He’s never stayed the night. Is this wrong? This feels all wrong. Like we broke some cardinal rule of ours. Not that we ever said we wouldn’t have sleepovers, but…
I start to freak out. After a few deep breaths, my heart rate slows. A wave of nausea rolls through me, and my head spins. I rest back onto the pillow, but when I close my eyes, the dizziness is worse and my mouth waters.
Oh no. I’m gonna be sick.
Throwing the covers to the side, I run out of my room and to the bathroom, making it just in time. After the first round of puking, I shut and lock the door. After the second round, I run myself a bath. I don’t even know what time it is, but I hope my roommates aren’t home. I don’t want to hog the bathroom on them, but with the way I feel, I won’t be out anytime soon. I hope Holden stays asleep. The last thing I want is for him to see me like this.
When the heaving finally subsides, I strip off my clothes and sink down into the warm water, the lavender bubble bath easing my nausea. I soak for a long time, until I kinda feel half human again. This hangover is going to kick my ass. I can probably thank Landon and his strong drink for that.
I finish up with a shower to wash my hair and dry off with a towel before wrapping myself in my robe I keep on the back of the door. I brush my hair and teeth and grab my dirty clothes off the floor.
A quick peek around the apartment tells me no one else is home, both of my roommates bedroom doors open with no Everleigh or Maia to be found.
My door is closed, though. That’s weird. Didn’t I leave it open when I ran to the bathroom? Trying to remember makes my head hurt so I push the thought from my mind and open the door.
Holden is awake, sitting up on my bed, his back resting against the headboard, and he’s reading a notebook of some sort.
As I walk closer, it dawns on me that it’s not just any notebook. It’s my English lit notebook from freshman year.
I know because I stared at that notebook cover so many nights when I couldn’t bring myself to write. English lit was one of the hardest classes to get through, the pain of what I’d experienced was so raw and so fresh then. The last thing I wanted to do was write. Because writing for me is therapeutic, emotional. But ignoring the pain is easier.
When I actually did manage to get words on the page, it was only forclass assignments and nothing else. Besides the two papers I shared in class and my professor, I haven’t shared the stories in that notebook with anyone, not even Everleigh, one of my closest friends.
Now here Holden sits, reading all of my pain and hurt like he’s allowed to, like he’sentitledto.
What the actual fuck?
I stomp over and grab the notebook from his hands. “Why are you reading this?”
He knows I’m pissed, and the annoyed look from me snatching the notebook from him softens. “I’m sorry, Len. I saw it on your desk and—”
“And what? You just assumed it was okay to read my private stuff without asking me?”
Holden shrugs and reaches for me, but I shake my head and take a step back. “It said English lit on it. I didn’t think it was private, like a journal.”
“Maybe it is to me. You know, writing is different for everyone. For some it’s more private than others. But most of the time, it's way more personal to the writer than you’d ever imagine. Story or no story. So always ask. It might not look like a journal to you, but to someone else, it is.”
“You’re right. My bad. I really am sorry, Len. You’re just such a good writer, and I really think—”
“Don’t.” I interrupt.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t tell me how great I am, how I should follow this passion, blah blah. I don’t want to hear it.” I toss the notebook down on my desk.
“Okay, but youarea good writer, Len. You should give yourself more credit.”
“Whatever you say,” I retort and sit on my bed, crossing my arms.
He scoots closer to me. “I’m hungover as shit, but the story you wrote was incredible.”
