My head. My high school’s old drum line has taken up residence inside my skull, pounding their mallets on the largest bass drum known to man. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds to roll over, the memories of last night pounding against my brain to the incessant thumping of my headache.
Hot damn.
I kissed Jonas. Then promptly threw up after he rejected me. Yet he didn’t leave, he stayed. I couldn’t even summon the mortification I should have felt when he grabbed a clip from my bathroom counter and held back my hair with it, or when he wet a washcloth and gave it to me when I was done, still crouched over the toilet. He’d lifted me in his arms and so easily and carefully carried me to my room. He made his way around my space with the ease of a man who had spent so many nights there, digging through my drawers to find a T-shirt.
But God. Mortification had set in then, even with me being barely awake. I struggled to sit and managed to push myself up, plopping my head against my headboard. His face showed surprise as he held up a shirt.
“You still wear this?”
I blink slowly. He was never supposed to know I kept it all this time. He was never supposed to know I stole it at all. I shrug, the energy it takes for that simple motion wearing me out. “It’s comfortable.”
He steps toward me, shirt fisted in his hand until he reaches the bed. “It was my favorite. I thought someone stole it from the laundry room. And you’ve had it? All this time?”
I wither beneath his perusal. He’s so serious. He’s supposed to leave. He’s the one who just rejected me not more than fifteen minutes ago. The gray shirt he has in his hand is from his senior year of high school. Twelve years old, the faded screen print letters of Connecticut University barely visible. What was once a deep pink is now muted, dirty. He bought it before he decided not to go to college. “It’s just a shirt, Jonas.”
His expression turns soft. A gleam in his eye I don’t have the energy, or sobriety, to decipher. “Sure it is, Caty. Just a shirt is all.”
I close my eyes as he reaches out. With efficient movements, he pulls me to the edge of the bed. “Let me get you dressed in this and then I’ll let you rest.”
My hands fall to his shoulders, and I lean in to him, my head lolls forward. So sleepy. Oh my goodness. Martinis are the devil in disguise.
He lifts my limp limbs, divesting me of my shirt and bra, and I realize he has no reaction to seeing my body. It’s a boon, really. It’d be creepy if he was getting turned on and enjoying himself right now, but the Jonas I’ve been with still would have paused. Shot me a teasing look and encouraged me in some way. This Jonas is quick and efficient, hurried in his movements as if he can’t wait to leave.
“Will you stay?” I mumble, once he’s slid this shirt over my head and tugged my arms through the sleeves.
His lips press to the top of my head. “Until I know you’re asleep, but I can’t stay with you, Caitlin.”
Of course he can’t. Sleeping in the same bed with a woman you’ve spent years sleeping next to and curled into isn’t on his list of things to repeat anymore.
Humiliation stings as I turn and climb into the bed. I tug the covers over me and roll, putting my back to him. This whole stupid thing started tonight because I was stood up. It makes total sense why Jonas doesn’t want things to go back to how they were.
Trey’s stupid app. There’s nothing wrong with the app. It’s working fine. Perhaps it’s just me who doesn’t work right.
“You can go,” I mumble, pulling the covers up to my shoulders and closing my eyes. “I’ll be fine now. Thanks for walking me home.”
“Caitlin—” he starts, and stops after my name.
I close my eyes and pray to pass out quickly. Seconds would be fantastic. I hear him moving. He heads into my attached bathroom and runs the water. Flushes the toilet. The water runs again, and by the time the bathroom door opens, the light from the room casting a glow over my bed, I pretend to be fast asleep.
I’ve been stood up, gotten drunk, kissed and almost puked on the only guy I can see myself being brave enough to hand my heart to, except it’s six months too late and he no longer wants it.
I’m the largest mess in Portland. Perhaps Oregon. West Coast minus Malibu. Those rich people are off-the-charts crazy.
“Good night, honey,” he says.
His hand squeezes my arm, and I’m plunged into darkness and silence as I finally pass out.
“Awesome, awesome,” I groan and throw off the covers. Next to me, the pillow is fluffed and clean. I have no idea where Jonas went, but he obviously didn’t stay.
Moving from the bed feels like I’m trudging through waist-deep mud. My movements are slow, my bones ache. Freaking hangovers and martinis. I still can’t believe I drank so much. Maybe I didn’t eat enough. I’d felt fine until I absolutely knew I wasn’t going to be. Leave it to me to go from tipsy to white-girl-wasted in the blink of an eye.
In the bathroom, I quickly clean up and brush my teeth, gasping when I catch myself in the mirror. My hair is a rat’s nest. More Medusa scary than curly and cute. Clipping it back, I wash my face and then pop some ibuprofen. I’m feeling almost human by the time I get back to my bedroom, and blink several times at the sight in front of me as well as the scent.
Someone has brought coffee to my room. Steam wafts from the white mug on my dresser, and next to it is a bagel slathered with cream cheese.
He’s here?
I make quick work of finding a pair of pajama pants in my drawers and pull them on along with a clean shirt. If Jonas wants his back, I should give it to him.
But still my heart flutters as I take my first sip of coffee. He’s not only stayed but made me breakfast? Where did he sleep?
The couch, you moron.
Makes sense. I grab my plate and coffee cup and hurry as fast as my still shaking and alcohol-withdrawing legs can move me.
On the couch, a blanket is rumpled and tossed over the back along with two pillows from my hall closet. My steps quicken.
I reach the kitchen and pull to an abrupt stop.
It’s not Jonas standing in my kitchen with his back to me. Off to the side is a plate of bacon and eggs, still fresh and hot, based on the fact Trey is rinsing dishes and loading them into the dishwasher.
The fluttering in my heart disappears and drops like a brick to my feet.
“Hey,” Trey says as he closes the dishwasher, realizing I’m in the room. “You feeling okay? Heard you had a rough night.”
The coffee mug in my hand shakes. “Jonas called you?”
He chews on the side of his cheek before nodding. “Came and got me last night when he left. He didn’t have a key to lock up and wanted me to know what was going on so I could make sure you were okay.”
It was nice of him. It still hurts to know he didn’t wait to take off. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to show my face around him again at this point.
One great night of drinks together in months, and everything feels ruined between us.
We don’t have the benefits anymore. I’m not sure we have a friendship, either, and I have no one to blame but myself.
I hold up my mug of coffee. “I’ve felt better, but thanks for this.”
He inspects me, and I can feel his gaze on me as I put my back to him and head toward the coffeepot. I need massive amounts of caffeine to kick this headache.
“Thanks for doing the dishes, too,” I tell Trey once I’ve filled my cup and taken another hearty gulp. “That was nice.”
“Your breakfast should still be warm. I didn’t want to wake you but figured if you woke after I headed back up to my place, you could warm it. You okay? And I don’t mean your hangover.”
I’ve never felt more unsettled in my life. I’ve never before felt the heaviness that comes with regret and fear of missed opportunities.
Still, I nod and grab a slice of bacon. “I’ll be fine.”
“Want the day off? I need to go shower and clean up, but we can put work off today if you need to.”
“No.” The distraction would serve me well. “Give me an hour and I’ll be ready. I’ll come to you.”
He heads to me and kisses my cheek, throws his arm around my shoulders, and tugs me to him. “Take care of yourself, Caty-bug. Call me if you don’t feel up to it.”
He leaves, and I frown. What in the heck did Jonas say to him to make him so worried about me? It’s not like he hasn’t seen me hungover before, or hell, not that we haven’t moaned over mutual hangovers together. Granted, they don’t come often, but there’s something different in his expression, a deeper concern than one night of recklessness.
Whatever. He’s probably thinking of the next project he’s starting, and the heavy look on his face has nothing to do with me.
I’m sitting on my couch, feet tucked under me. I have another thirty minutes before I have to get to Trey’s place to start work, and more than once I’ve debated texting him to let him know I’m calling off work. A day of Vampire Diaries and Lifetime movies is almost too tempting to resist. While I’m feeling better, my headache now a dull thump I can ignore, it’s the messages on this stupid life-altering dating app that have grabbed my attention and caused me to lose all desire to work.
Michael: Where is the best place to shop for lightsabers?
Caitlin: I don’t know. Where?
Michael: The Darth Maul.
I laugh. It’s too stupid not to make you giggle while performing a massive eye roll.
Caitlin: Lame. Do better.
Michael: What’s a baseball player’s least favorite Star Wars movie?
Caitlin: Seriously?
Michael: The Umpire Strikes Back.
Caitlin: You are scraping the bottom of the barrel.
Michael: Don’t fault the joke book I’ve had for years. This is good stuff.
At least a joke book explains the ridiculousness. And there’s something sweet about it. How long has he had this thing that he can still pull it out just to make me laugh? And why go through the effort? I’m intrigued.
Michael: In all seriousness, I would like to make it up to you about last night. Tuesday? Same time same place?
I have no desire to step foot into Dirty’s for the immediate future, and yet curiosity still tugs at me. Why is this guy, the one I barely know, and who has already stood me up, drawing me to him with corny jokes?
My thumb hovers over the reply button right as another message alert pops up. I scan over to it and open it, reading it as my smile pulls into a frown.
Logan: Any time for lunch this week? My treat.
Ugh. We’ve messaged back and forth a few times since our date ended so abruptly last week, and while I still enjoy talking to Logan, there’s nothing about this message that makes me feel any sort of tug like the ones from Michael.
Or the visceral reaction I have to Jonas. Which means it’s time to let this guy go, but ending over a text when he’s been nothing but nice doesn’t sit right, either.
I can be an adult about this, but there’s no way he’s paying for my lunch.
Sure. Tomorrow?
Perfect. Southside Cafe at 12:30?
I pull up the café I’ve never heard of, surprised when I see it’s just around the corner from Dirty’s. I’ll have to walk by the restaurant to get to the café, and the thought alone gives me other ideas of things I should take care of tomorrow. Namely, Jonas. I text Logan back that that will work and I’ll see him then, and then chew on the side of my thumbnail.
Now, what in the heck do I do about Michael? I can’t give him a chance until I figure out a way to clear things up with Jonas. I have to at least try.
Pull on my big-girl pants and let him know what I’m thinking, why I essentially threw myself at him last night despite his rejection. Six months ago he came to me and wore his heart on his sleeve, knowing the risk. Perhaps it’s my turn to do the same.
If only that thought didn’t make me feel like I might puke, it’d be fantastic.
Before I can second-guess myself, bravery somehow suffusing itself into my fingers, I pull up Jonas’s name on my contact list and send him a quick text.
I’m so sorry about last night. Thanks for everything. Can we get together some night this week and talk? There are things I need to say.
There. There’s no way he’ll let me back out of that one. Now I only have to hope he wants to listen.
Before I can stare at my phone, waiting for his reply to come through and driving me batshit crazier than I already am, I grab my files and laptop, slide my feet into my slippers, and head to Trey’s place.
Except I’m not even to his place yet when my phone vibrates in my hand, and I know without looking it’s Jonas replying.
How? I have no clue. I just know he’s a nice guy and despite the awkward levels we had to reach last night, he’s too nice of a guy to ignore me.
Intrigued. And don’t worry about last night. Busy week at the bar, and I can’t get away. Any chance you can swing by tomorrow after dinner?
Which puts me there right before Michael wants to meet anyway. Which could be perfect or horrific.
But at least this way, I can settle things with Jonas before meeting him, and if Jonas is open to me or to trying something again with me, then I can let Michael down in person and apologize.
Look at me…being adult and shit.
I pull up PerfectMatch and open my message string to Michael. Tomorrow sounds good. See you then.
And then I go to my text from Jonas. Six-thirty-ish?
Sounds great-ish. ;-)
I press the button to take me to Trey’s floor and step in, catching my reflection in the doors, and it’s only then I realize I’m smiling. Excited. Color has pinkened my cheeks and made feel alive.
The only question: Is it because of Jonas? Or Michael?