But then, June mumbles into her pillow, and I think maybe I’m not such an uninvited guest after all. “On graduation day, I wanted you to kiss me, but you walked away.”
My head spins. Did June not hate me back then? Was she just playing the same game I was?
I cross the room to stand next to June’s bed and pull her comforter up over her. She’s just going to have to sleep in that dress tonight, because there’s no way I’m taking it off her.
After I’ve lingered beside her way too long, and maybe even brushed her hair out of her face, I wonder what life would have been like if I hadn't walked away.
What if I’d kissed her that day?
Would I be sleeping next to her tonight?
Would I be happier than I am now?
What ifs ping around my brain for the rest of the night like an annoying screensaver where the words never reach the corner. No matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself I made the right decision all those years ago. And even worse, I still can’t tell if I’ll make the same decision again a second time.
All I know is that June says she hates me. But I don’t hate her. In fact, I think I’m just as crazy about her as I was back then. Maybe it’s a poor decision, and maybe I’ll think more clearly in the morning, but I’m going to get June’s attention again. And it turns out, the strategy is exactly the same as it was in high school.
I’ve gotta get under her skin.
Chapter Five
June
I am going to murder my best friend.
Go ahead and zip me up in an orange jumpsuit and lock me in the slammer for life, because Stacy Williams is dead to me.
Was she out of her ever lovin’ mind to plan her bachelorette party on a Sunday night? Meaning, the night before MONDAY—the day that I have to wake up at five in the morning to open the bakery. (For those of you doing the math at home, that’s only about two-and-a-half hours after I stumbled into my bed.)
I hate her. I grumble it fifteen more times before I bring myself to squint my eyes open, and good heavens, that’s one spinning room.
How did this even happen? I haven’t had over two drinks in a night since my early twenties. I’m usually very careful, especially knowing I have to open the bakery the next day. But last night, having Ryan only feet away from me did strange things to the rational thinking part of my brain. I was too nervous to eat and lost count of my drinks (did I mention I never do that?). The combo was brutal and life-changing. Life-changing in that I will never touch another cocktail again.
Women hung around Ryan like the world was suddenly being depleted of oxygen and he contained the super-special, never-ending supply behind his lips. Everything he said garnered a barrel of laughs. The man should be a stand-up comedian for how funny everyone seemed to think he was. If the conversation just barely turned to something that wasn’t worship for His Majesty, some little darling would pull it right back to him and then stare at his special oxygen lips while he spoke.
Ooooh, Ryan, you’re a chef! Ryan, what’s it like running a prestigious kitchen? My, what big muscles you have, Ryan!
I don’t know if it’s the tequila trying to make its way back up or the thought of Ryan that’s making me want to barf, but the nausea is real.
Finally bringing myself to open my eyes, I realize I’m hugging a man’s gray suit jacket, and I fling it to the ground. Memories assault me like I’ve just put a beehive on my head. Ryan brought me home last night. STING. He came in my house. STING. Put me in my bed. STING. Covered me with a blanket. STING, STING.
And…oh no. I admitted to wishing he had kissed me!
Now I’m really going to be sick. Oh, but no worries. There is a waste basket beside my bed with a fresh trash bag in it, because RYAN put it there, knowing I’d be out-of-my-mind hungo
ver today. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.
My head is throbbing, and my body feels like a semi has run over it, hit reverse, and then taken one more pass. Honestly, I wish it had. Then, I wouldn’t have to face Ryan the rest of this week.
All I want to do is lie here in my bed and wallow all day long, but I can’t. Although I thought ahead to have Stacy’s shift covered, I didn’t anticipate me trying to drink the entire contents of four bars in one night and still thought I’d be in tip-top shape this morning. Somehow, this is all Ryan’s fault. It feels good to throw the blame on him.
Tossing off the covers, I force my legs off the side of the bed and sit up straight. I immediately spot another clue that my nemesis was in my house. Two little aspirin pills lay innocently beside a full glass of water, taunting me. Sure, it could have been a friendly gesture: I hope you feel better soon, June! But I know Ryan. This is his way of saying I win again.
I don’t even want those pills—don’t even need them!
But when I stand and cross the room at the pace of an injured snail, I turn back and down the aspirin like my life depends on it. Ryan will never know.
Twenty minutes later, I still feel (and look, mind you) like the Grim Reaper, but I’ve wiped the caked-on mascara out from under my eyes, brushed my teeth for a solid two minutes, and signed a contract I scribbled out onto an old receipt, stating that I will never drink again. I also attempt to scrub off all of my regret in the shower. It doesn’t work. With every minute that passes, I realize I despise my actions from last night more.