I'm trying to understand where her head is at, but it’s hard. All I see in front of me is a woman who wants to be loved, and I have so much love for her, it’s practically pouring from me and reaching out for her.
“Why do you think that?” My voice is hoarse, rough.
Riley yawns, and her head sinks farther into the cushion. The grip she had on her knees starts to loosen.
“Because…” She pauses and lets out another yawn, her voice is so quiet that I need to lean in to hear her. “My feelings.”
I swallow down the pressure in my throat. She’s never admitted she’s had or has feelings for me. I’ve assumed it, but everyone knows what happens when we assume things.
But hearing her say that right now, it feels like I’ve just gotten the wind knocked out of me.
“Your feelings?” I force the two words out of my mouth.
“I’m so tired.” Her words jumble together, and I know she needs to sleep.
I need to process this. I don’t even know if she’ll remember having this conversation tomorrow morning. There’s no way I can let myself get wrapped up in this.
She’s drunk, and there’s not a single sober bone in her body. But I haven’t lost her completely, and maybe I still have a fighting chance.
Maybe everything willbe okay.
TWENTY-ONE
RILEY
My head feels like it's going to explode. If I move, it’ll go off like a grenade. I don't need that kind of mess in my bedroom.
How the hell did I get home? I don’t remember. What I do recall is talking to some lovely women in the bathroom when I had to pee. They complimented my outfit, and I'm pretty sure I gave each of them a hug and told them how beautiful they looked.
After that, it's a little fuzzy.
I groan into the pillow—a pillow that is covered in drool—and force myself to turn over and open my eyes. My ribcage feels like it’s being squeezed to death, and I realize I’m still in my clothes from last night. I must have gone straight to bed.
I squint one eye, testing the lighting in my room.
When I force my eyes open, my surroundings are not familiar to me. At all.Nothing in this room looks like mine. The first thing I see is pale gray walls with hanging frames.
Yup, this is not my room.
Oh god, I hope I didn't go home with someone absolutely obliterated and not remember a single thing. I could have ended up on a true crime show where my friends talk about how I would light up a room anywhere I went.
I lift myself up on my elbows, my head continuing to pound like a drum. I groan some more. When everything stops spinning, I scan the room. It's—clean. A long, wooden dresser sits across from the bed on the opposite side. A sitting bench is perched under a four-pane window.
I squeeze my eyes as tight as they can go before opening them again, hoping I’ll magically appear in my bedroom, in my own bed, and not some strangers. I peek one eye open.
Nope, still not in my room.
Throwing the fluffy duvet off my body, I place my feet on a fuzzy rug that splays out from underneath the bed. Now that I’m sitting up straight, my head feels like it weighs the same as a twelve-pound bowling ball.
I press my palm on my temple, putting enough pressure to ease some of the pain, my other hand going to my stomach. Nausea courses through me, and I can feel the acid in my throat.
Inhaling two deep breaths helps my stomach calm a little.
Finally, I push off the bed and sway on my feet, placing a hand on the wall to balance myself. Every step I take makes me want to hurl.
There’s a framed photo that hangs a few inches away from the right side of the door. It’s set up so a person can look at it every time they leave this room.
“Who—” Everything stills around me when I make out the picture that hangs in front of me.
