by Jen Morris
A tiny, hopeful smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I reach to pull him closer, and he brushes his mouth over mine in a soft, delicate kiss, letting out a little sigh as he pulls away.
“I like you a lot too, beautiful girl,” he murmurs, raising my hand to press his lips to the back of it. “But you’re very drunk. Let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”
I nod, snuggling back against the pillow as Michael’s hand caresses my arm. I feel my eyelids grow heavy and I drift off to sleep with a smile on my face.
30
I’m dead. That’s what this feeling is. It’s a familiar feeling, too.
I crack one eye open and wait for the pain to subside, but it doesn’t. I need painkillers and water, fast.
Peeling myself from the bed, I stand and wobble to the bathroom, stepping between discarded cups and party hats. Geoff has passed out on the couch, still wearing his party hat, snoring.
My head is pounding so hard I can barely stand. In the bathroom I manage to down a few painkillers, then I lower my mouth and drink straight from the faucet, trying to piece together the events of last night.
I know Michael was there. And Henry, I think. And I talked to Michael—well, of course I did. It would be weird if I hadn’t. What did we talk about? Something about… writing, maybe?
I stumble back through the living room and collapse onto my bed again, willing the painkillers to work faster.
There was dancing too, I think. Did Michael dance? Even in my hungover state, the thought of that makes me smile. I try to reach further back in my brain, to find another scrap of memory I can pull out into the light, but my thoughts fade away as I slip back into sleep.
Somehow, I sleep through until the afternoon. By the time I wake, I feel a bit better. I’ve still got a headache but it’s dialed down from a ten to a four. I’m going to need to eat something soon, though.
I roll over in bed and reach for my phone to check the time, surprised to find a text from several hours ago.
Michael: Good morning. How’s the head?
I stare at the screen for a second, waiting for my brain to catch me up. Last night… Michael…
But nothing is coming. Ugh, I’ll text him later. I need coffee.
Yawning, I toss my phone aside and climb out of bed. When I push the curtains to my nook open, I see that Geoff has attempted a quick tidy of the living room before leaving, bless him. Cat’s not home either, I notice as I pad down the hall. Maybe her and Geoff went out. Or maybe her date with Kyle went a lot better than she’d planned.
I manage to shower and get dressed, then head out for a coffee and something delicious to eat. I slide into my favorite table in the window at Beanie, with a massive latte and chocolate muffin in front of me. Perfect.
Nibbling on my muffin, I pull my phone out to see if I got any photos of last night. There’s loads of pictures I don’t remember taking, and I stop on an especially cute picture of Michael and I at the selfie corner with some of the silly props. I’ve got one of the mustaches on a stick and he’s wearing huge glasses. I smile at how happy we look, and as I flick through more pictures of us, fragments of last night start to piece themselves together in my brain.
Yes, Michael and I did dance together. It was fun, I recall with a giggle. And we flirted… yes, we flirted a lot. We talked about… kissing? I think we did. I might’ve even told him I wanted to kiss him. But I didn’t do it, of course, because—
Oh. Fuck.
A memory comes back to me, clear as day: the taste of pineapple and coconut, the slide of Michael’s tongue over mine. It’s so vivid, so visceral that I can taste it, and it sends a violent shiver through me.
More memories chase that one and my face heats with shame. Because I didn’t just kiss him, I threw myself at him. Oh God… I think I even tried to rip his clothes off. The poor guy! I was like a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth for him. I’m surprised he made it out alive.
Actually, that’s a good point… What happened? I know for certain we didn’t sleep together, so how did it end? Did he push me off him? Did I walk away?
Ha. That doesn’t seem likely. My self-control was clearly at an all-time low and I’m sure that, if he let me, I would’ve done every dirty thing I could imagine.
So what happened?
I scan the depths of my brain, groping about for clues, but come up empty-handed.
It doesn’t matter, anyway—there’s no excuse for me mauling him like that. As humiliating as it is, I need to apologize. And maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll volunteer the rest of the information. Then we can have a good laugh at drunk old Alex and put it behind us.
I consider going up to his place now to apologize, but as I polish off my muffin, nausea climbs the back of my throat. I’m getting serious morning-after-my-birthday flashbacks and I think I need to lie down again. I greatly overestimated my ability to be up and at ‘em today.
Abandoning my half-drunk coffee, I rise to my feet and hurry back home along the street. My head is pounding again by the time I push through the door, and I’m relieved to see Cat is still out and the apartment is quiet. I slump onto my bed and crawl under the covers, typing out a text to Michael. He’s supposed to be driving me up to the cabin tomorrow, so an apology right now might be a good idea.
Alex: I’m so sorry about last night, I was wasted. Can you forgive me?
Michael: You don’t need to apologize.
Alex: No, seriously, I’m sorry. Can we just forget everything?
I watch the screen, waiting for his reply. Apprehension squeezes my gut as the little dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. After what feels like forever, his reply comes through.
Michael: Fine.
I exhale in relief. Thank God, I haven’t destroyed our friendship with my crazy antics.
Alex: Cool. Is it still okay to get a ride to the cabin tomorrow?
Michael: I’ll pick you up at 7 a.m.
True to his word, Michael pulls up outside the building at seven sharp in an old, beat-up 4x4 truck. He leaps out, taking the front steps two at a time.
“Hey!” I grin as he enters the lobby.
“Hey,” he says, not meeting my gaze. He grabs my bags, heading straight back out onto the street, and I feel my smile slip as I follow him out. Then he dumps my bags on the back seat and opens my door, not saying anything.
“Thanks,” I mumble, hopping in.
We don’t speak as we weave through the streets, out of the Village and up along the Hudson River towards the George Washington Bridge. When I sneak a glance at him, his line of sight is fixed on the road, his brow furrowed slightly. Something seems a bit off with him, but I’m not sure what. Well, it is early. Maybe he hasn’t had his coffee yet.
I twist in my seat to gaze back at the city as we cross the bridge. I see the Empire State Building and Chrysler Building silhouetted against the slate-gray sky, and a smile slides onto my lips. I still can’t believe I live in this city—the city I’d dreamed of for years, the city I’d seen in movies, that always felt more like a dream than a real place. And now, I call this city home.
With a happy sigh, I sit back and stare ahead through the windshield. “Thanks for letting me tag along,” I say after a while.
Michael grunts and I look at him with a frown. Jeez, what is going on with him today?
He glances at me and I smile, hoping it might somehow make him lighten up, but the V between his brows deepens and his gaze cuts back to the road.
Bloody hell, he’s in a bad mood. I haven’t seen this guy for a while. This is Starbucks Michael, Halloween Michael—the first Michael I knew. I wonder why he’s back all of a sudden?
“Um, is everything okay?”
He looks at me again and sighs. “Yeah. Fine.”
I study him for a second, then cross my arms and turn to stare out the window at the gloomy sky. Dark clouds are gathering fast, which seems to match Michael’s mood perfectly. This is going to be a long trip.
/> I don’t know how long I sleep for, but when I wake the first thing I notice is that everything is white. Like, everything.
Michael is leaning forward in his seat, squinting his eyes to make out the road as we inch along.
I sit up, taking in the frosty surroundings. “It’s snowing,” I say in wonder.
Michael grunts. “Yes.”
“Are we nearly there?”
“Yes.”
I can barely see five feet out the window. I glance at Michael, worried. “Are you okay? Can you see?”
“Enough.”
“It’s a lot of snow,” I murmur, snuggling into my seat. I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into. I’ve never been in so much snow and don’t know the first thing about it. I can’t even build a fire. I’ll probably freeze to death in his cabin and Michael will have to tell people how pathetic I was. I shiver at the thought.
“I thought it would pass,” he says, concentrating on the road. “But it seems to be getting worse.”
“Should we be driving in this?”
“You want to sleep in the car?” he snaps. “We’ll freeze to death.”
I shrink down in my seat. “Sorry.”
He glances at me, softening a little. “I hate driving in this weather. We’re nearly there.”
I try to figure out where we are, but I can hardly see anything beyond the white. Eventually, we pull up a driveway and through the frosty haze I can just make out a log cabin.
“Okay, stay here.”
“You want me to freeze to death?” I joke, but Michael doesn’t laugh.
“I’m going to clear some of the snow so we can get in.” He jumps out of the car and I see him battling with a shovel to clear the path to the doorway. After a few minutes he comes back to the car and grabs my bags, then comes back to grab some groceries we stopped for on the way. Finally, he opens my door and tells me to follow him. I step out into the snowy wonderland, my breath coming out in a cloud around me. It’s like a scene from a fairy tale: snow-flakes falling in front of a log cabin surrounded by trees.
Wow.
“Alex! Get in here!”
I walk carefully, my boots sinking into the snow as I make my way up the path. Michael closes the door behind me and I peel my coat off, taking in my surroundings. It’s a typical log cabin, with the big round log walls, high peaked ceilings, stone fireplace, and a big, worn sofa with two armchairs. To the right is a small kitchen with wooden cabinetry and simple wooden bench tops. Several doors lead off the living room.
“Okay, I’ll show you around and explain everything before I head off.”
I turn to Michael, concerned. “You’re going back out again, into that?” I gesture to the window and the white abyss beyond.
He shrugs, slipping his hands into his jeans pockets. “I said you could have the place to yourself.”
“You also said you hate driving in this weather.”
He stares at the floor, quiet.
“I think you should stay, at least until the snow clears. It’s not safe to drive in this.”
He puffs out a frustrated breath. “Fine. I’ll go get my bags from the car and make sure the water and everything is working. Can you make a fire?”
I cast my gaze over the massive stone fireplace, the stack of logs and the box of kindling. I’ve never made a fire before, but I watched Dad do it a lot as a kid. How hard can it be? Besides, the last thing I want to do is make Michael any grumpier than he is. And I don’t want him to think I’m some useless woman who’s worried about chipping her nail polish, or something.
“Absolutely,” I say, striding towards the fireplace with confidence. He disappears out the door and I start stacking kindling like I’ve seen Dad do in the past. I find a box of matches on the mantle-piece and light the pile, waiting expectantly. Not much happens, so I heap on some more twigs and thin branches from the basket beside the fireplace. But all that does is make smoke pour into the living room.
Fuck.
This isn’t like the fireplace we had back home, which was a box where you could close the front door. This is wide open and the smoke is billowing into the room, up to the ceiling. Where are the damn flames?
I stand, glancing around in panic. I know putting logs on it won’t help, but if I try to put it out we might not get another one going.
Gah! Why did I tell him I could do this?
“What the hell are you doing?” Michael appears back inside, slamming the front door and yanking off his coat. He waves his arms through the air as he strides over.
I shrivel. “I’m sorry, I was trying to—”
“Forget it.” He nudges me aside and kneels in front of the fireplace, fussing about with the kindling.
I stand rigid, my arms folded as I watch him, not daring to move. Eventually, once he has coaxed flames onto the wood, he stands and turns to me.
“I’ll show you your room.” He takes my bags through one of the doors, into a tiny bedroom with a single bed. “Leave the door open so it heats up,” he instructs. Then he shows me the bathroom and the kitchen, before unpacking my groceries into the pantry.
I perch on the sofa in front of the fire, slowly warming up. Even though it’s only early afternoon, it’s almost dark with the storm. Michael turns on a couple of lamps, and a warm yellow glow falls over the room.
“You want some lunch?” he asks, rooting about in the pantry. He pulls out some dried pasta and canned sauce, holding them up.
I smile gratefully. “Sure, if you don’t mind.”
While he cooks and I sit in front of the fire, it dawns on me that we are going to be staying here, in this house together, tonight. This is exactly the sort of situation I should be avoiding, but we don’t have a choice now. At least he’s back to being Grumpy Michael, for whatever reason. He’s a lot less appealing as Grumpy Michael.
Although, that brooding look is sexy…
No. Being trapped alone with him here is not a good excuse to throw caution to the wind and jump him. I need to be vigilant.
After we eat, I do the dishes, hoping it might improve his mood. But when I come back into the living room, there’s a scowl gathered around Michael’s eyes as he stokes the fire.
“I’ll have to sleep out here tonight so I can keep this going,” he says as I ease myself back onto the sofa.
“You don’t have a fireplace in your room?”
“Yes, but you’ll need this one to keep warm.”
I picture sliding into bed with him in front of a blazing fire and shiver with longing. That is, until I glance at his thunderous face. He must be irritated that he has to give up sleeping in his own bed to keep the fire going for me.
“Um, I can do it.”
He snorts. And as I watch the yellow firelight lick over his glowering features, I suddenly snap.
“Jesus, Michael! What the fuck is your problem?”
He glances at me, eyes wide with shock.
“Okay, look. I know I messed up the fire and I shouldn’t have told you I knew what I was doing. But that doesn’t explain why you’ve been angry with me all morning.”
He turns to stare into the flames, stroking a hand over his beard in thought. “I’m annoyed about what happened on New Year’s, Alex.”
“Oh God.” Shame slaps my cheeks and I raise a hand to hide. “I know, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that.”
“What?” He gives me an odd look. “No, I wanted you to kiss me. That’s… that’s not it.”
“Then what?”
“I—” He hesitates. “It was what you said, before I left.”
Shit. Who knows what I said, blind drunk?
And then a horrible thought occurs to me. What if I was a total bitch to him? I don’t even want to consider it, but sometimes when I drink… That would certainly explain why he’s so mad. Or, fuck, maybe he stopped the kissing and I got angry, which is quite possible. And mortifying.
I rub my forehead vigorously, as if that might dislodge a memory, and
Michael frowns at my bemused expression.
“How much of New Year’s do you remember?”
I grimace. “Not much. I’d had a lot to drink.”
“So had I, and I still remember it.”
“Well excuse me, Mr. Perfect Memory.” I make a face.
His eyes track over me for another moment, then he exhales. “I guess it’s not fair to be mad at you if you don’t remember.”
“What… happened?”
“You said something…” He lets his gaze slide from mine. “Something I really wanted to hear.”
My heart jumps. What does that mean?
“Then why were you angry?”
“Because the next day you texted me and told me to forget it.”
“Oh.” I want to ask him what I said, but honestly? I’m terrified of the answer. Instead, I take a breath to ask something else I desperately want to know—something that’s been eating away at me since yesterday. “Michael, why, um… why didn’t we sleep together?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “You don’t remember that, either?”
“No,” I mumble. “I just thought, you know, we were kissing, and… did I stop it?”
“No, Alex.” There’s a flash of amusement in his eyes. “You did not stop it. I did.”
“But… you said you wanted to kiss me. So why stop it?”
“Because we were drunk! I didn’t want it—us—to be that; drunk sex on New Year’s.”
“Oh,” I murmur. He was being a gentleman, not taking advantage of what I, apparently, was eagerly offering. “That’s… that’s really sweet.”
His eyes linger on my face and his mouth softens into a smile. “I’m sorry for being a jerk.”
I smile too, relieved to see him coming around. “It sounds like I wasn’t that nice to you on New Year’s Eve. Sorry I can’t remember.”
There’s a twitch in his cheek. “I never said you weren’t nice.”