"I hate this entire universe," I mumble between heaves.
"Even me?" His palm slides down my spine in slow circles.
"Especially you." My stomach clenches again. "And Sarah's stupid pink drinks. And those penis straws. And—" Another wave hits. "And your stupid hands being all . . . gentle right now."
"Want me to stop?" But his fingers are already working the magic spot at the base of my neck that has me melting.
"No." I press my cheek against the cool porcelain. "Yes. Maybe just . . . be awful for five minutes? Tell me how gross this is. Tell me I'm the worst drunk mess you've ever—"
"Can't do that, Shortcake." His thumb hits a spot that makes me groan. "Besides, you're kind of cute when you're all pathetic and hungover."
"I will aim for your shoes."
"Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried. Though usually it's not the girl I—"
"Don't." I wave him off. "Just let me perish in peace."
"You sure that's what you want?"
No. Stay. Keep touching me like that. Keep pretending last night never happened.
"I'm sure." I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "Just trying to salvage whatever dignity I have left."
He hesitates at the door. "I'll be right outside."
The moment he's gone, I slump against the wall.
I scrub my teeth until my gums protest, and spend too long on my makeup, trying to pass for someone who hasn't had her heart torn in two. The mirror doesn't help. Neither does hearing Calebmoving around in the other room, wondering why I'm taking so long to come out and face him.
"Get it together," I mutter, gripping the sink. "You're fine. You're Beyoncé." I pause. "Okay, you're not Beyoncé. Beyoncé wouldn't beg for her best friend's dick. But you're . . . something. Someone that doesn't die of embarrassment after one rejection."
When I finally step out, my heart betrays me with a flutter. Because there's Caleb—six feet of temptation sprawled on the edge of the bed like a walking billboard for everything I can't have. His hair's still a mess from sleep, that too-soft T-shirt stretched over the shoulders I clung to last night. He won't meet my eyes, but there's coffee, water and Advil waiting on the nightstand, because he's determined to kill me with kindness.
I make a beeline for the couch, doing my best to ignore the wrongness that clings to the space between us.
"Thanks," I manage, reaching for the water. Caleb's fingers twitch, as if he's about to help, but he stays still.
The silence stretches between us, taut and fragile. I can't read his expression—can't tell if he's mad, or uncomfortable, or simply waiting for me to speak first.
"Listen—" I begin, at the exact moment he says, "About—"
We both stop like someone hit pause. Great. Perfect. This isn't awkward at all.
Just rip the band-aid off.
"I'm so sorry," I blurt out. "About last night. I was drunk and . . ." The laugh I force out sounds like it's been put through a wood chipper. "That would've been such a mistake, right?"
Mistake.
The word burns coming out, because it's the biggest lie I've ever told. But he doesn't need to know that. He's so quiet I swear I hear my dignityshriveling.
"I mean," I continue, because apparently, I hate myself, "can you imagine?Us?" I wave between us like an idiot. "Plus, I probably had tequila breath and—"
"Ivy."
"—and you were being nice, letting me down easy—"
"Ivy!"
