But even as I think the words, I know they don’t fit—Ro’s notsome guyand he wasn’t trying to embarrass me. At least I don’t think so. Right now, though, my head’s throbbing too badly to want to think much of anything at all.
I’m still attempting to recall the exact height of the garage, to determine if a jump from this second-story window will result in a scuff, a break, or certain death, when voices from the far side of the closed bedroom door invade my shame cocoon. I emerge from the covers in a flurry of matted curls and regret, with an ear turned to the door. Feet already primed to run as fast as last night’s strappy stilettos will let me.
Before I can hurl my body through the double-paned glass, Ro’s doorknob begins to turn. Out of time and options, I do what any adult woman would do in my situation; I fake sleep. Unfortunately, when I yank back the covers while flopping down to the mattress, they catch just enough air that they’re still gently lofting down over me long after the door swings open. A useless parachute floating down to cover the lifeless body it betrayed thirty thousand feet ago.
Confronted with just how intensely the universe seems to hate me, I ready myself to face the consequences of my actions—this isn’t my first awkwardmorning afterand it won’t be my last.
But when our eyes meet, I’m in so much deeper than I could’ve known.
“Oh. My. God,” I say, relieved that when I palm my chest, all my bits are still concealed by Ro’s T-shirt.
He doesn’t speak, so I’m forced to fill our stunned silence.
“Hi, Mr. Jackson.”
The apartment behind Ro’s dad goes in and out of focus aspanic blurs my vision. My heart thunders, beating way too fast in my chest and between my ears. As if my situation wasn’t already bleak enough, it’s becoming increasingly clear that my adrenaline spiking this high against my hangover is about to result in vomit or—did I already mention certain death?
His face is scrunched in justified confusion and his next word leaves me looking much the same. “Claire?”
Who the fuck is Claire?!
“No,” I say, wondering why the ground hasn’t yet opened up to swallow me whole. “It’s Kaia. Harper.” As if it’s my last name that’s the source of his confusion.
Neither of us move for what I can only assume are multiple lifetimes.
At some point, Ro appears from behind Mr. Jackson, looking as horrified as I feel to not only have been caught half naked and hiding, but to be doing it in another woman’s spot.Claire’s.
“Shit, Pops,” he says, already guiding his father out by his shoulders. “You can’t be back here right now.”
Ro closes the door behind them, without so much as acknowledging my presence, and the instinct to fight reorients my insides in a rush. All signs of my hangover gone in an instant.
I’m on my hands and knees now, grasping at every stray piece of clothing I can find to shield myself from the karmic joke that awaits me outside. Hidden beneath the makeshift armor that is my own shirt layered over Ro’s T-shirt, all concealed under one of his discarded sweatshirts, my rage temporarily cools enough for me to make a plan.
I’m on the edge of the bed, with my phone in hand, when I hear a knock at the door. So soft, I may have imagined it.
Please tell me I imagined it.
The door cracks open, and this time it’s Ro’s head peeking in from behind it.
He takes my silence as permission to enter, hands raised in approach. “I am so sorry.”
“You’resorry?” I bite back.
He visibly recoils. “I totally forgot they were coming.”
“They?”
“My mom’s here too. Sunday brunch.” He says it with a shrug, but the words hit me likeshots fired.“We’ve been doing it since I got back. But last night I was…” Ro gestures to me, and I’m suddenly acutely aware that I’m still on his bed. “Distracted. I forgot to cancel. Are you okay?”
If he keeps talking, I’m going to scream or read him for filth. Neither of which I want to do with an audience.
“I’m fine,” I lie, and though I have no claim to this man, I can’t keep the venom from my tone. But I’m the one who showed up uninvited and unannounced. I’m the one who should be sorry.
I force steady breaths as I stand, righting the borrowed sweatshirt, covering my frantically beating heart.
“It’s my fault,” I tell him. “Just give me a minute to get outta the way.”
He doesn’t go. He’s watching me, tying his fingers in knots in front of his chest.
