“Can you be a little more specific?” I ask. My eyes feel heavy, the mix of wine, pizza and tequila weighing me down.
“I answered your question,” he says tiredly, laying his head back against the sofa.
The room is quiet again as I wait for him to ask me another question. It doesn’t come. At least I don’t remember it.
MY HEAD THROBS.
My stomach turns.
I’m not in my bed. There’s no pillow for my head, no soft mattress under my body. I rub the sleep from my eyes, focusing my attention on the light coming from the window—the living room window. The sun isn’t shining, which is a good thing because it would do nothing for my pounding head.
Warm skin brushes against my stomach, a muscular arm wraps itself around my waist. Turning my head, I see Blake sleeping behind me—our bodies perfectly aligned on the couch.
I don’t remember how we got this way, but if the ache in my head is any indication, there’s a good reason for that. I haven’t been like this with anyone in a long time. Even when I was with Derek.
I shift, trying to get out from under his hold before he wakes up. I slowly work myself free, and just when I think I am, his arm tightens around me, tucking me back against his warm body. There’s no way to tell if he’s actually awake without looking.
I’m not going to look.
In many ways, I’m starting to feel like Blake and I are similar. Not so much in personality, but how deep we bury ourselves in our secrets.
And the feeling of being wrapped up in him is different than I ever could have imagined. It’s something I want, but I don’t. Having someone hold me again fills a hole I didn’t even realize I had. I understand the idea of a rebound guy, and I’m not going to let myself go there, but this is just as good.
“Aly,” he mumbles behind me, ripping me from my thoughts.
“Who?” I ask, louder than I intended.
“What the fuck,” I hear him mutter, his mouth against my hair. He stirs, and his whole body tenses right before he lets go of me. He’s coming to his own realization, but it seems like he’s not going to take it as well as I did.
I sit up, the throbbing in my head unbearable.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice angry and confused.
“Trying to wake up.” Scanning my body for the first time, I’m relieved that I’m in the same clothes as last night.
“No, I mean, what the fuck are you doing here . . . with me?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him come up beside me. He rubs his own temples but keeps his eyes off me.
I think about standing and simply walking away, but I can’t. “I think we passed out. Don’t you remember how many shots we had last night?”
“We didn’t.” He signals between us with question in his eyes.
“We still have our clothes on. Asshole,” I groan, rubbing my temples.
“I don’t want you to think this meant something, because it was nothing.”
“I didn’t want it to be anything,” I whisper. Or maybe I do, and I won’t admit it.
A giant ball of tangled emotion forms in my throat, and I do my best to swallow it down. I didn’t expect anything from him, but hearing him voice it without invitation is a cruel rejection. Even if I admit that I want him, he wouldn’t want me.
“At least we’re on the same page,” he mumbles, standing and hurrying off to his room. His door slams, causing me to startle.
He was cold.
Then he was warm.
And now, he’s back to cold again. It’s probably better if I don’t let him in . . . to avoid the chill that’s sure to follow. Wanting to be hidden away should he decide to come out of his room, I stumble to my own. I should jump in the shower to wake myself up, but I fall into my bed instead. The headache, the rejection . . . I just want to fall back asleep.
Pounding music—the kind with enough bass to shake the floor beneath you—wakes me. He’s back to his old self, and I want to kill him. And more importantly, I hope he didn’t bring someone else back here just to prove to me that I’m nothing. I heard it loud and clear.
I hear his bedroom door fly open, but only one set of feet sound on the hardwoods. A weird wave of relief sweeps through me. Curling myself into a ball, I try to drift back to sleep, the covers pulled up high against my neck.
All is right in the world again until I hear pans clanking in the kitchen. Two rules. He’s broken two rules already. If I walked out of this room, he’d probably be standing in his boxers. That would make three.
Pam sprays. Eggs crack. The smell of breakfast fills our small apartment. The TV clicks on and SportsCenter drowns out the music that still plays. If I wasn’t pissed before, I’m pissed now. I march out of my room, hitting the power button on the TV before stomping off to Blake’s bedroom to turn down the music.
I’m almost back to my room when a hand wraps around my elbow, pulling me back. “If something’s not yours, don’t touch it.”
I crank my head, looking down at his fingers wrapped around my arm. “Then get your hands off me.”
His eyes sparkle. “You’re right,” he says, letting go of me. “And, if I’m following that rule, you can too.”
Turning around, I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m starting to think you can’t follow rules.”
He comes closer, but I stand my ground. I’ve spent months convincing myself that I’m not weak. I’m not going to let someone like him bring my weakness back to the surface.
“I do what I want,” he spits, “So stop trying to change me.”
“Don’t worry, Blake. I’m well aware that I can’t wash the jerk off you,” I say, spinning on my heel.
One point for Lila.
When I finally get out of bed, everything is quiet. I stretch my arms up, noticing a new voicemail lighting up my phone. It’s probably Mom or Mallory, I think to myself as I roll over to retrieve it.
I press play, putting it against my ear. “Hey, Lila, it’s Pierce Stanley, we sat together on the plane to Chicago.” He laughs lightly before continuing, “I wanted to see how things were going in the Windy City and if you had any luck on the job front. My company just had a design apprenticeship open up that you might be interested in. Anyway, give me a call if you’re interested. I’d really like to tell you more about it.”
It’s not that I have short-term memory problems, but I’d almost forgotten about Pierce Stanley until just now.
The thought of getting a real job—one I might actually like—makes me want to call him back right away, but I can’t.
I want it so badly, my dream job, but I’m scared of failure. Not because I don’t have the education or the eye for it, but because I’ve failed before. I’m not going back down that road again.
FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE I moved to Chicago, true loneliness consumes me. It’s been almost two days since I last saw Blake. Two days since I’ve talked to anyone outside of this apartment besides the nice guy who delivered my Chinese food last night.
The snow trapped me inside.
Then it was my own anti-social mood that kept me in. This isn’t who I am, or who I promised myself I’d be after Derek wrecked me. I’m stronger than this, or I should be.
Last night, I started to wonder if Blake was right, if moving to Chicago was a stupid idea. I’m wasting the opportunity, doing the same thing I would if I were still at home.
Picking up my phone, I dial one of the only sane people I’ve met since moving here.
“Hey,” Dana answers.
“Hey, what are you up to?” I ask, nibbling on my lower lip.
“Actually,” she groans, “I was just getting ready for a date, and I feel like I have nothing to wear. What are you up to?”