The sheets smell like soap and smoke. Not cheap motel soap. The good kind, the kind somebody buys on purpose. Not just somebody. A man. The pillow under my head is too firm, the mattress too solid, like it belongs to a man who sleeps light and doesn’t waste money on softness.
The room is quiet, too quiet.
My head pounds like punishment. Not just a hangover. A reckoning. My stomach rolls, panic hitting fast and sharp, but I don’t scream. I don’t bolt upright. Years of scraping by taught me better than that.
I breathe, slow.
The nightstand sits to my right. Clean. Neat. A glass of water already sweating onto a coaster. Two aspirins laid out beside it like instructions. My phone is there too, plugged in and fully charged.
That’s when my heart really starts to race.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
My boots are lined up by the door.
Perfectly.
Like somebody took them off and cared enough to do it right.
My chest tightens.
And then I see it.
A folded piece of paper on the nightstand, tucked under the edge of the coaster like it might blow away if it ain’t anchored.
My hands shake when I pick it up.
It says, in blocky handwriting:
Don’t panic.
That’s where everything goes wrong.
Chapter 2
Brittany
I flip the paper over.
There’s more.
You passed out hard last night. You didn’t do anything wrong. I took your boots off because you were about to break your ankle trying to keep them on. I didn’t touch you. Nobody else did either. Your keys are on the hook by the door. Your bag’s on the chair. Drink the water. Take the aspirin. I’ll be gone before you wake up.
Oaks
I read it twice.
Then a third time, slower.
My throat tightens in a way I don’t understand. Relief and something darker tangle together in my chest. Gratitude. Embarrassment. A flicker of disappointment I shove down hard like it’s a shameful thing.
I sit there longer than I should, staring at the handwriting like it might tell me more if I look hard enough.
Then I move.
Quietly, carefully. I pull my boots on with hands that still feel unsteady. I grab my bag, slip my phone into my pocket, hook my fingers around my keys. I open the door without a sound.
The clubhouse is different in the morning.
