There’s his husky voice, and a murky memory floating just beyond the edges of my sanity that has me and him pressed sweatily together sayingveryhot things to one another that I can’t quite recall. The wordcockwas in there somewhere.
I’m pretty sure I was the one talking about it. And maybe trying to touch it?
I am so hard ...I think that’s what he said to me. I can still hear the pain in his voice in my head.
Was that at the bar or here? Or somewhere in between?
What did I say to him??
I fall back on the pillow with a groan, silently praying that he was as drunk as I was last night so maybe he doesn’t remember, either. I do remember, hazily, walking home with him and his friends and that bachelorette party because I couldn’t reach JuneSpencer all day. And what had to be hours upon hours of singing and drinking at the bar before that.
And Mason looking all hot and smoldering in his tight blue T-shirt, pouring me drinks. And trying to get menotto drink. He kept giving me water.
And the phone call with Sophie, earlier.
Kyle.
The meme.
My fucking dumpster fire of a life.
“Fuck.” I really would’ve thought it would be impossible to sink any farther into that chasm that gobbled up my dignity five days ago, but last night I think I managed to plummet a little lower.
I take a deep breath and force myself to sit up again as my brain cells gradually come back online. I blink at my surroundings. Real hardwood floors, walls painted blue, a small wooden desk and chair. I see no clock anywhere to tell me what time it is. But the room is definitely decorated like a teenage boy lives in it.
The glittering redMiss Behavingsash that dangles from the doorknob looks incredibly out of place. As does my pink Kate Spade handbag, sitting on the bedside table by the football-shaped lamp.
I look around for my phone but can’t find it anywhere.
I wonder if I left it in the bar. Seems like something Very Drunk Sierra would do.
My suitcase sits on the floor, and there appears to be a note on top of it. And now I remember. I got the suitcase from my van after we left the bar, and Mason carried it here for me.
Where is he now?
I hear nothing else beyond this room but that distant hammering, on and off.
I slide out of bed, carefully, woozy as I get to my feet and blood thumps through my body. My organs are incredibly angry at mefor drowning them in more delicious cider and gin than they could possibly process.
I pick up the scrap of paper, and my insides effervesce with way too many feels at the sight of a man’s handwriting—because I know it’s from Mason, and I already like him way beyond reason.
Sierra, it reads,I didn’t want to wake you. Please help yourself to anything in the kitchen and let me know if you still want my help with June.He signed itMason Grantand wrote his phone number carefully at the bottom.
I tuck it into my purse like Gollum stashing his precious ring of power, my pulse flying as I absolutely refuse to acknowledge what this man is doing to me when he’s not evenhere.
It’s too dangerous.
You don’t even know if what happened last night was real, I scold myself as I lay my suitcase open.You are rebounding. And you were very, very drunk.
However, I wasn’t very drunk when he poured me those first few drinks, and he seemed pretty fucking fantasticthen. Which definitely confuses my survival instincts.
I choose some fresh clothes and manage to stumble my way into them. Unfortunately, while Very Drunk Sierra had enough forethought to bring the suitcase, she forgot that my toiletries and cosmetics are in a different bag, which is still in my van, which is still parked on the street across from Mason’s bar, which is god only knowswherefrom here.
I pack the suitcase back up and leave it on the rug, and make up the bed. Then I grab my handbag and bring it with me as I quietly ease the door open and peer out. A hallway greets me. A gleaming stretch of hardwood floor, several other doors, a staircase leading down at the far end of the hall. At the opposite end, plastic sheets hang over a stairway leading up, and that hammering sound drifts down.
I wonder if Mason is up there.
I tiptoe up the hall feeling like a felon, with no idea who I might run into or potentially terrify. When I find a bathroom, I dip inside and do my best to clear up the raccoon eyes. I finger-brush my loose hair; my hair elastic has mysteriously disappeared. Then I finger-brush my teeth with some toothpaste I find by the sink.
