It felt like the first time anybody had ever looked at me and actuallyseen me.
The words that could change everything hover at the tip of my tongue.
Words that could make this real.
“Caleb,” I breathe, and his name tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted but never dreamed I could have. “I love y?—”
“Oh shit, wake up, babe!” comes a thunderous voice in my ear. “Get dressed. We gotta get outta here before they find us.”
The voice is wrong. Rough where it should be gentle. Loud where it should be tender.
No no no no no—I blink and Caleb’s face fractures like glass.
“What the fuck!” I shout, jerking upright.
The golden lamplight is gone. The soft sheets are gone.
Caleb is gone.
Instead, above my head are the water-stained ceiling tiles of the lowest-rent motel room. The reek of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener cling to the inside of my nose. Beneathmy arms, a scratchy comforter feels like sandpaper against my suddenly too-aware skin.
And in front of me: Z’s bare ass as he yanks on his boxers and baggy black jeans.
My stomach drops through the floor.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” He tosses me something—my clothes?—and I catch them on instinct. “But we really gotta bounce. I don’t know how long before housekeeping makes rounds.”
I look down at the floor beside Z. At my clothes—my jeans andmybra and underwear—crumpled like they were discarded in a hurry.
Wait, if my bra is down there?—
Oh shit! Horror smashes into me. I look under the comforter. My tits are bare.
“Oh my God.” The words come out strangled.
I yank the comforter up to my chin, suddenly feeling more exposed than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
Z sits on the edge of the shitty hotel mattress and reaches for me. His hand finds my bare hip through the thin comforter, fingers stroking in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I jerk away from his touch, pressing myself against the headboard.
“Easy, babe. You okay? You were really out of it last night.”
“Did we—” I swear I can’t breathe. “Z, what happened last night?”
He tilts his head, studying me with those dark eyes that suddenly look nothing like Caleb’s. “You really don’t remember?”
“I—” My headispounding. I press my palm against my temple, trying to think through the fog. “We were watching TV? And you had that bottle of Jack?—”
“Which you went at pretty hard.” He says it gently, no judgment, but I hear a voice shouting in my head anyway:This is your fault, Harper. You drank too much. Just like your whore mother. Drinking and fucking and ruining everything!
Flashes come back in fragments. The burn of whiskey down my throat. The way everything went soft and blurry at the edges.
Crying—I remember crying, don’t I?
Z’s arms came around me, holding me while I sobbed about?—
About Caleb.
