“We’ll see how thankful you are tomorrow after you wake up. But for the record, I’m glad you had fun. I did too.”
“Good,” she smiles again, and it’s obvious her eyelids are growing heavy as she sinks further into her bed. “Drive safe, okay?”
“I will,” I promise, giving her one final look.
One might assume she’d look like a drunken disaster after everything tonight, but to me she looks practically angelic.
She closes her eyes, and I turn off the light.
“Goodnight, Hollis,” I say and shut the door behind me.
17
Hollis
Hangovers can absolutely suck it. The only redeeming part of waking up this morning was rolling over and finding a glass of water, two painkillers, and a neatly folded note on my nightstand.
That small sliver of gratitude only lasts about five seconds as flashbacks from the night before come flooding in. Some details are still a bit hazy, but as my comforter slides down my body and my bare chest is on display, the unfortunate highlight reel of me,half naked and trapped in my dress, with only Fletcher there to help, hits full force.
Wonderful. Just the impression I wanted to make.
The one bright side to all of this is that it’s my day off, but that’s also equally depressing. Nothing like spending your much needed day of rest nursing a hangover while actively praying the man you’re somewhat interested in suffers a case of amnesia.
And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow can officially fuck off. Not only will I have to face the man who quite literally undressed me last night, but I’ll be doing it sober. Pretty sure that should qualify as cruel and unusual punishment. Then again, with how reckless I let myself get, maybe it’s exactly what I deserve.
Finally feeling brave enough to move without risking my skull exploding, I grab the water and pills and carefully toss them back. I reach for the note next, but just as my hand touches the folded paper I'm interrupted as my phone pings from where it’s conveniently been plugged in. A level of adulting I know drunk me never achieved last night all on my own.
It’s probably Logan, and or Candice in our group chat promising to never go out with me again, not that I blame them. I don’t ever want to go out with myself again either.
It’s not the girls, though. It’s Fletcher’s name that appears on screen.
Do I even want to know what he has to say? Probably not, but I also can’t go on pretending like the night before never happened, despite how tempting that sounds.
I let out a deep breath and slide my finger over the pop-up.
Fletch:
How are you feeling? Hopefully you saw and took advantage of the water and pills I left.
I should reply. If anything, he at least deserves a thank you for everything he put up with, but I can’t make myself type aresponse. Hell, just opening this text took practically everything I had left in me. So, being the immature child I am, I set my phone back on the bedside table, shove my face in my pillow, and let out a long, pitiful groan.
If a sinkhole could open underneath my bed and swallow me whole right now, that’d be fucking great. Too bad I don’t even have the brain power right now to even google how to make one appear. Ugh, where’s a good ol’ Etsy witch when you need one?
The only thing I feel even remotely capable of is closing my eyes, and pretending the day away, which surprisingly works faster than expected. Despite my catastrophizing, I fall back asleep. It’s probably the pills I have to thank for that, since what used to feel like a jackhammer going to town inside my skull now feels like a casual handyman lightly tap-tap-tapping away. It’s progress, and right now? I’ll take it.
I’m not sure how long I’m out for when a loud knock jolts me awake—and this time it’s not the kind going on inside my head—or at least I don't think so. I sit up quickly as things go blurry and a lightheaded sensation takes over.
Note to self: no more sudden movements.
Despite the stars still circling my vision, I'm left in silence. Did I really just imagine that?
I shake my head, because clearly I’m losing it, but another, much louder knock sets me straight. The relief at knowing I'm not going crazy is feeling, because this just means someone is actually at my front door.
For this Gen-z’er I’m not sure which is worse.
I pull the covers up over my face. Do I really have to answer it? Would it really be the worst thing in the world if I stayed in bed, pretending like I'm the last person on earth and that nobody else exists?
The knocking grows louder and more insistent.
