The voice escaping the shower belongs to a woman. I recognize the voice.
A sigh of relief crosses my lips. All the tension in my chest disperses in a burst of cool strokes, like standing in front of a floor fan on a hot summer day.
Lyndsey.
So, I didn’t sleep with anyone. At least not a woman. But it doesn’t answer the question of where we are. I walk to the wide set of windows along one side of the bedroom. The windows tower high above my head, stretching almost as far as the entire length of the room. The curtains shield the majority of the sunlight filtering in beneath them but permit just enough to tell me it’s morning. I struggle with peeling back the heavy fabric and wriggle my body in between two panels to take in the view beyond them.
The vibrant orange posts of the Golden Gate Bridge rise up over the bay. Flashes of sunlight glint off the surrounding buildings, and I can just barely make out the shape of passing double-decker buses below.
So still in San Francisco.Though that doesn’t answer the question of where this shirt came from.
A notification on my phone chimes. My mother. I promised to visit her this week. Usually, I’m there once or twice a week. But in the past two weeks, I’ve had to cancel because of work. I respond with a promise to visit her after work tomorrow when I notice the past messages on my phone.
No...
Did I text Professor Hawthorne?
Please, tell me I was not that far gone. I open the text history. A weight drops from my throat to the pit of my stomach. It tugs tighter, simultaneously twisting in my belly like a carnivorous tapeworm and strangling the breath from my lungs like a garrote around my throat.
I told him what? The fire in my cheeks inflames into an intolerable explosion. Like teeny tiny packs of fireworks are just popping all over my skin. That’s one of the first signs of a stroke, right? An aneurysm, maybe? It’s all for the best really. Just bury me somewhere alongside the redwoods. Or maybe Lyndsey can take my ashes somewhere exotic.
There is no way to come back from any of this. How am I supposed to face Professor Hawthorne after sending him text messages that look like a booty call?
The flesh-melting heat erupting across my body subsides to a sudden icy revelation. Is that where I am now? Is this whose shirt I’m wearing? The chill races down my back, streaming along my extremities until I’m certain nothing on my body works anymore. I guess there is only one way to find out.
I exit the bedroom and make my way into the realm beyond.
The decor is relatively bare, with no personal touches to relay any sense of where I am. This could be a hotel room for all I know. A couch crosses my vision. I note the rolled-up blankets and extra pillow. So, whoever stayed the night with us must have slept out here.
The strong scent of coffee lures me deeper into the room. If the witch from Hansel and Gretel wanted to have me for a snack, this is the best way to do it. I would die happy, munching on siding made from glazed donut holes and a storm drain that converted rain into a dark roast blend.
The pleasant feeling fades when I see him.
That same rush of ice replaces the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and I freeze to match the state of my skin. He is standing beside the percolating coffee pot, scrolling through something on his phone, and shoving the remnants of a partially eaten bagel in his mouth. It’s the first time I’ve seen him so disheveled. His thick sandy-brown hair shoots out in every direction, clumped together in boyish little tufts of hair. Stubble peppers his jawline, accenting the deep shade of his tanned complexion.
He looks like a sexy pirate in sweatpants and an open robe, and I am about two seconds away from asking permission to climb aboard.
Enough, Aly! That kind of thinking is what got you into this mess in the first place.
He glances up from his phone, no doubt drawn by the inescapable aura of lust radiating off of me. The pheromones alone should be enough to set off even the most basic instincts, but if he doesn’t adjust his appearance soon, I’m pretty sure I’m going to set off the sprinklers.
“Good morning.” He smiles, and I melt all over again.
“Morning.” I manage a one-word response that doesn’t sound like I have marbles in my mouth or strep throat. I call it a small victory for now. Whatever husky overtones brought on by oversexed thoughts arise from the base of my throat, I can always just blame it on a lack of coffee.
He notes the line of my gaze, this time, thankfully, on the coffee pot. He turns at the waist, stretching his long arms behind him to retrieve a mug from the kitchen cabinets. Those are almost completely bare, too. Did he have to pay for a hotel room so we could all stay the night? I appraise my surroundings. There’s no way I’d be able to afford even one-third of the cost of this place. How on earth am I going to repay him?
“Sugar?” he asks.
I shake my head. I’ve been drinking my coffee black since I took on my second job in high school at the age of seventeen. The stuff barely keeps me awake anymore. Now, it’s more of a formality. A way to keep me centered when my mornings descend upon me in chaos.
I take the coffee and inhale one long stream of its aroma before sipping. When I look up, he’s watching me, arms folded across his chest. His eyes intently study me like a rare creature under glass. The subtle humor of a smile twinkles in his gaze, not reaching far enough to his lips to prove my observation.
A scatter of tingles climbs up the back of my neck, spilling out across my throat, my face. I’m probably turning bright red right about now, but I can always blame it on the coffee.
“Do you remember anything from last night?” he asks suddenly.
Just the supposed booty call I requested last night. And even that I can’t entirely remember. I shake my head. “What happened?”