This is what you get for staying up late, genius,I scold myself, flopping deeper into the pillow.
I try to remember what time I actually fell asleep... except I can't.
My brain backtracks, fuzzy and slow, until it lands on the one detail that snaps my eyes open faster than a double shot of espresso.
Zach.
I shift on the mattress, slow and reluctant, sneaking a peek toward Sam's side of the room. The last I remember, Zach was over there — sitting by her bed while we talked.
Well...hetalked.
About his game. About me watching said game.
About how he'd personally chauffeur me to Naples afterward and back again if I agreed.
He was ridiculous. But... also stubborn. I still don't get why he's so determined to have me there.
I push myself upright, hair a full bird's nest disaster, scanning the room. No Zach. Figures. He must've slipped out once I knocked out.
I flop back down and face-plant into my pillow, groaning loud. Because that's when it hits me—I actually agreed to watch his game on Saturday.
Begrudgingly, sure... but still agreed.
Why the hell did I say yes?!
For the life of me, I can't remember. I run through the possibilities like I'm cross-examining myself in court.
...maybe because he caught me half-asleep and used my drowsiness against me?Sneaky bastard.
...or maybe because he just kept pushing and I was too tired to argue back?
---or maybe it was the way he looked at me when he said he missed seeing me cheer for him? With those damn eyes. Straight-up Puss in Boots mode. You know—the wide, tragic, cartoon-cat stare no sane human can resist.
And I folded like a cheap lawn chair.
...Or maybe you said yes because you actually miss watching him play hockey, idiot,my brain snipes.Simple as that. Quit being Miss In-Denial and own it, Caroline.
I groan louder into the pillow. Ugh. Traitor brain.
I mean, Icouldjust pretend I don't remember saying yes. Play the amnesia card. Right? That's an option.
Except no. That's pathetic.
I said I would go, so that's that. Whatever. End of story.
Like I said—own it, Caroline,my brain's smug little voice chimes in, way too pleased with itself.
My gaze drifts back to Sam's bed — and she's still there, bundled under the duvet.
I scramble out of my own bed and hurry over, pressing a hand to her forehead before I can stop myself.
Cool. No fever. Relief leaks out of me in a whisper. "Oh thank God."
I straighten carefully, moving like a thief in my own room as I tiptoe toward the closet — not wanting to wake her up. I pull out my running gear, changing as quietly as possible, tugging on my sneakers.
The storm's passed, but I can still smell it through the cracked window—the damp, heavy scent of wet earth, like the whole world just had a long cry.
I grab my water bottle off the desk, reaching for the scrunchie I left there last night—only to pause.
