7
I have a healthy appetite for carbs and sweets.
I was drunk. It happens. I'm just not a big fan of curling up in the sheets and realizing they aren't my sheets. Now, I have to take inventory: Do I have a shirt on and are my panties still in place? When the answer is "no" to those two questions, I close my mouth and focus on breathing in and out of my nose because no one has pleasant morning breath after drinking all night. Before stretching my arm out to see if I'm alone in the bed, I run my fingertips under my eyes to clear away the raccoon smudges from my eyeliner—rub, rub, rub until my fingers come back clean, and onto the next. My hair is in a tangle of knots, so I smooth it down, careful to avoid shaking the bed. Now, it's time to check if I'm alone. I doubt I would have stripped myself bare and climbed into a man's sheets alone. That doesn't sound like something I'd do drunk or sober.
My hand comes in contact with a toasty, rippled back. I didn't think I was that drunk last night. The sex might have been bad. Sex.Shit. I sit up and look around for more proof, finding a condom wrapper on the nightstand. Well, if it was just one time, we practiced safe sex. I'm not sure if he will remember more than I do since he was the one who couldn't buy more drinks at the bar. How do I remember that and not having sex? Last night makes little sense. However, I am about to hurl up everything I ingested yesterday. I need to find my clothes.
Wesley is snoring, but the cute snore that's just breathing with a little phlegm in his throat—tolerable at worst.What the hell am I thinking?One-night stands lead to a dead end. I don't do one-night stands because it's hard to look at the person again and not assume that a relationship of any kind would ever amount to anything more than sex.
I slip out from under the covers, finding my panties hanging off the cushioned bench at the end of the bed, and my shirt is beneath the bed along with my pants.Then I spot my bra and shoes by the door.Fabulous. How did my shoes and bra make it off at the same time? I don't want to think about the scene.
I'm pretty sure I'm still somewhat drunk as I stumble around, trying to keep my balance upright, which means my thought of sneaking out of here without making a noise is unlikely, since I've rattled at least three pieces of furniture while trying to pull my pants up.
If Wesley wasn't snoring, I'd wonder if he was alive because he hasn't moved an inch. But, he's alive so I don't need tofeel guilty about leaving. Goodbye, beautiful milk-mustache-man. I slip out the door and find my purse and coat draped over his couch. He has a very nice place.I think I said the same thing last night. The sun is starting to rise, so I should have time to get home, rinse off the shame, and get back in time for a different kind of shame at work.
Do I leave my number?No, I said goodbye. One-night stands don't work out, so I already know the outcome. Was there a spark though? God, I need to remember what the hell happened last night. It'll come back in pieces, I'm sure. I need coffee and a cold shower. I'll notate where he lives, and he knows where I work, so a number isn't necessary I suppose. People found each other back in the day without cell phones, so if there's supposed to be some serendipitous encounter between us, then he'll find me in some old-fashioned romantic way.Nope, I'll end up puking on his feet at a bar the next time I run into him.
I run out and grab my phone from my purse as I'm heading out into the cold air. Layla has left me a dozen messages, looking for me. I swear I told her I wasn't coming home.
I shoot a quick message:
Me:I'mon my way home. I'm alive. Don't worry.
Layla:You're in trouble, woman.
The moment I reach the subway waiting area, the train pulls up. This makes three days in a row of lucky timing with the subway. I wait for the doors to open as I stare at the blurry window, offering a glimpse of my terrifying reflection. It looks like I slept on the street last night, never mind the walk of shame. I take the seat at the back of the cabin, facing backward with a hope of avoiding all human interaction.
I somehow remain invisible until I walk into my apartment where I find Layla standing in front of the couch with her arms folded over her chest like an angry mother. “Where the hell were you?"
I squint one eye, feeling a drumming pain in my head from the volume of her voice. “I was at Wesley's apartment."
“We have rules, Madelyn."
She sounds like my mother too. “I tried to reach you last night, but you didn't respond." At least I tried to give her an update.
“You didn't mention you weren't coming home," she says. “We promised each other we would at least message to say we aren't coming home. We're supposed to watch out for each other. I always tell you when I'm staying out."
“You're going a little overboard, aren't you? There are plenty of times you don't send me a message when you stay out all night." My mood cannot handle her dramatic friendship love at the moment.
“Yes, but I'll make a good mom someday, won't I?" she asks.
“Someday, I'm sure."
“Oh my God, did you sleep with him? The milk model guy?"
I run my fingers through my hair and yawn. “I think so. I need coffee to know for sure."
“Coffee doesn't work like that," Layla informs me.
“Yes, it does." I smell a brewed pot in the kitchen. Since Layla is awake at the crack of dawn, she has a pot ready, which is perfectat the moment. I pour a cup, keeping it black today. It's not scorching hot, so I chug it down. “I need a cold shower, and I'll remember more information for you."
“Are you drinkinglukewarm black coffee?"
“It‘s amazing, don't worry."
I strip my clothes off on the way to the bathroom without concern if Layla is watching because I can't get myself to feel concern about much right at this second.
The moment the cold water dribbles down my back, thoughts bubble, bringing me back to last night. I remember being at the bar. Wesley got cut off by the bartender. Then, he swept me off my feet while luring me to his apartment after an unexpected kiss which assisted my urge to follow him.
