Panicked, I call the only person I know who might have practical advice for this situation.
The FaceTime chimes as Lilah answers it with an aggressive “This better be an emergency.”
She’s still in bed, the camera held up above her head, the dim light of her phone exposing her sleeve of delicate floral tattoos.
“It is,” I say, hoping she can discern the desperation in my voice.
“You know you can have condoms delivered, right?” she groans, pulling the covers over her head.
“Why would I call you for that?”
“I asked you to bring me cranberry juice for my UTI a week ago. Thought this might be a tit-for-tat situation.”
“It is not,” I reply, shuffling over to the dresser to throw on a shirt. It’s a tie-dye green-and-black tee from Elite’s annual Adopt-A-Highway cleanup.
“I think I fucked it up with Mira,” I say, my voice on the verge of cracking. I should be calling Lilah with good news, sharing my excitement about what happened last night—omitting the more scandalous details, of how she felt like velvet between my fingers or that I had to name native bird species when her teeth bit againstmy neck to keep from exploding against her in the kitchen, which were secrets only for me. But the last thing I expected was to have to explain how I lost her in a single evening.
“I’m sure you’re overreacting,” she says lackadaisically. “Premature ejaculation happens to a lot of guys when it’s been a while. If you just explain you had one too many—”
“Jesus, Lilah, that’s not what happened,” I argue, sitting on my bed. Staring at the empty space she occupied earlier, I wish I could savor it.
“From the text Finn sent me last night I heard you two were practically fucking in the street. I can’t think of any other reason things would go south unless ...”
She sits up, understanding washing over her face. “Hudson! Tell me you didn’t.”
“I wasn’t thinking.” I shake my head shamefully. “We were kissing and she suggested coming here and I didn’t want the night to end.”
The expression on her face is the same one she reserves for underage kids attempting to order a Long Island iced tea. “Did she freak out?”
“I didn’t even get the chance to tell her. She ran out before I could.”
“Ran out last night or this morning?”
“This morning,” I replied regretfully.
“So you guys hooked up?”
“No,” I clarify, “she fell asleep.”
“Thank God for that,” Lilah sighs. “At least she doesn’t have a reason to key your car or burn your building down. This is solid drink-thrown-in-the-face territory at best.”
“That’s not helpful,” I groan.
“I want to be sympathetic to your plight, but I told you to be upfront with her.”
“I know. And now I need you to tell me how to fix this.”
“Maybe she had to run out for a job. She works weird hours, right?”
“She did get a call,” I say, remembering the sound of her ringtone blasting through the room.
“Maybe she had one of those sunrise photography sessions or something. I’m sure she just overslept. This freakout could be for nothing.”
I bite my lip.
“What?” Lilah asks, reading my uneasy expression.
“She went to the bathroom,” I say, sneaking a glance at the products still scattered on the floor, and then I remember the decor in my living room and I’m hit with another wave of nausea. “Oh God. And the photos.”
