by R. S. Elliot
I pause, holding back the remaining sentiments for as long as I can. But I sense the growing questions in Lyndsey’s mind, the thousands of unanswered questions swirling around in my head, as well. The only response I can think to add is, “I was worried.”
Silence. Again.
At this point, I’d rather take the scolding. Hell, I’d listen to her talk about anything at this moment, rather than let this silence drone on between us.
“You’re going about this all wrong, you know.”
Anything but that.
Chapter Eleven
Aly
This can’t be good.
None of this.
I mean, there is absolutely no scenario where I wake up in the morning in a strange room, wearing clothes that aren’t mine, and have no recollection of what happened the night before, that doesn’t end in sheer horror.
I’m either dead and finally made it to the cushy side of heaven. Which isn’t the worst side of the two possibilities. Because, if I’m honest with myself, these pillows and this mattress are certainly worth dying for.
Or I made some kind of mistake last night that involved me going home with a man.
I stare down at the clothes I’m wearing. Still in my underwear, but my bra and dress have been replaced by an oversized t-shirt. It looks like a man’s shirt, but the gentleman in question is nowhere to be found.
If I did sleep with someone last night, I don’t feel any different. No soreness, no flashes of memory that allude to what happened. It’s all just black.
Empty.
I stare around the room. A woman’s bra is draped over the side of a chair, along with a scrunched up dress. The emptiness in my chest expands.
Crap! Did I sleep with a woman, too? My first sexual encounter and I opt for a threesome? What the hell happened last night?
The rush of water captures my attention. Faintly, someone sings an unidentifiable tune. It’s coming from the room beside the bed. The bathroom, maybe? Someone is taking a shower. I move toward the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of at least one of the people I shared a bed with last night.
The voice escaping the shower belongs to a woman. I recognize the voice.
A sigh of relief crosses my lips. All the tension in my chest disperses in a burst of cool strokes, like standing in front of a floor fan on a hot summer day.
Lyndsey.
So, I didn’t sleep with anyone. At least not a woman. But it doesn’t answer the question of where we are. I walk to the wide set of windows along one side of the bedroom. The windows tower high above my head, stretching almost as far as the entire length of the room. The curtains shield the majority of the sunlight filtering in beneath them but permit just enough to tell me it’s morning. I struggle with peeling back the heavy fabric and wriggle my body in between two panels to take in the view beyond them.
The vibrant orange posts of the Golden Gate Bridge rise up over the bay. Flashes of sunlight glint off the surrounding buildings, and I can just barely make out the shape of passing double-decker buses below.
So still in San Francisco. Though that doesn’t answer the question of where this shirt came from.
A notification on my phone chimes. My mother. I promised to visit her this week. Usually, I’m there once or twice a week. But in the past two weeks, I’ve had to cancel because of work. I respond with a promise to visit her after work tomorrow when I notice the past messages on my phone.
No...
Did I text Professor Hawthorne?
Please, tell me I was not that far gone. I open the text history. A weight drops from my throat to the pit of my stomach. It tugs tighter, simultaneously twisting in my belly like a carnivorous tapeworm and strangling the breath from my lungs like a garrote around my throat.
I told him what? The fire in my cheeks inflames into an intolerable explosion. Like teeny tiny packs of fireworks are just popping all over my skin. That’s one of the first signs of a stroke, right? An aneurysm, maybe? It’s all for the best really. Just bury me somewhere alongside the redwoods. Or maybe Lyndsey can take my ashes somewhere exotic.
There is no way to come back from any of this. How am I supposed to face Professor Hawthorne after sending him text messages that look like a booty call?
The flesh-melting heat erupting across my body subsides to a sudden icy revelation. Is that where I am now? Is this whose shirt I’m wearing? The chill races down my back, streaming along my extremities until I’m certain nothing on my body works anymore. I guess there is only one way to find out.
I exit the bedroom and make my way into the realm beyond.
The decor is relatively bare, with no personal touches to relay any sense of where I am. This could be a hotel room for all I know. A couch crosses my vision. I note the rolled-up blankets and extra pillow. So, whoever stayed the night with us must have slept out here.
The strong scent of coffee lures me deeper into the room. If the witch from Hansel and Gretel wanted to have me for a snack, this is the best way to do it. I would die happy, munching on siding made from glazed donut holes and a storm drain that converted rain into a dark roast blend.
The pleasant feeling fades when I see him.
That same rush of ice replaces the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and I freeze to match the state of my skin. He is standing beside the percolating coffee pot, scrolling through something on his phone, and shoving the remnants of a partially eaten bagel in his mouth. It’s the first time I’ve seen him so disheveled. His thick sandy-brown hair shoots out in every direction, clumped together in boyish little tufts of hair. Stubble peppers his jawline, accenting the deep shade of his tanned complexion.
He looks like a sexy pirate in sweatpants and an open robe, and I am about two seconds away from asking permission to climb aboard.
Enough, Aly! That kind of thinking is what got you into this mess in the first place.
He glances up from his phone, no doubt drawn by the inescapable aura of lust radiating off of me. The pheromones alone should be enough to set off even the most basic instincts, but if he doesn’t adjust his appearance soon, I’m pretty sure I’m going to set off the sprinklers.
“Good morning.” He smiles, and I melt all over again.
“Morning.” I manage a one-word response that doesn’t sound like I have marbles in my mouth or strep throat. I call it a small victory for now. Whatever husky overtones brought on by oversexed thoughts arise from the base of my throat, I can always just blame it on a lack of coffee.
He notes the line of my gaze, this time, thankfully, on the coffee pot. He turns at the waist, stretching his long arms behind him to retrieve a mug from the kitchen cabinets. Those are almost completely bare, too. Did he have to pay for a hotel room so we could all stay the night? I appraise my surroundings. There’s no way I’d be able to afford even one-third of the cost of this place. How on earth am I going to repay him?
“Sugar?” he asks.
I shake my head. I’ve been drinking my coffee black since I took on my second job in high school at the age of seventeen. The stuff barely keeps me awake anymore. Now, it’s more of a formality. A way to keep me centered when my mornings descend upon me in chaos.
I take the coffee and inhale one long stream of its aroma before sipping. When I look up, he’s watching me, arms folded across his chest. His eyes intently study me like a rare creature under glass. The subtle humor of a smile twinkles in his gaze, not reaching far enough to his lips to prove my observation.
A scatter of tingles climbs up the back of my neck, spilling out across my throat, my face. I’m probably turning bright red right about now, but I can always blame it on the coffee.
“Do you remember anything from last night?” he asks suddenly.
Just the supposed booty call I requested last night. And even that I can’t entirely remember. I shake my head. “What happened?”
“Um…” He shifts on the balls of his feet. His jade eyes fall down to the floor, focusing on the marble ti
les.
Oh no. My pulse climbs, soaring to immeasurable heights with no apparent plans of returning to Earth. I was wrong. Please, God, tell me I didn’t lose my virginity to this man and can’t even remember it.
“Oh my gosh. We didn’t-”
“No.” He releases a short breath, a sound somewhere between scoffing and laughing. “But thanks for that. I’ll be sure to add that look of sheer horror to my memory for when I feel the need to humble myself.”
“I’m sorry. I just meant- We just…”
“No. It’s okay,” he says, his smile putting me out of my misery. “I get it. I’m just not sure how to tell you what happened. Or what almost happened?”
What almost happened?
This conversation isn’t making me feel any better. He tilts the contents of his mug idly, swishing the coffee around as if the answers exist somewhere in the grounds. The tiny scar on the side of his face twitches. The seriousness in his features is enough to send me toppling over the edge. What the hell happened last night? And why can’t I remember a thing?
“What do you mean?” I ask, impatient.
“You were given some sort of date-rape drug at the club last night.”
Ice water replaces the flow of blood in my veins. Did he say what I just think he said? There’s no way I was given anything without my knowledge. We’ve all been given the lectures at this point. Don’t leave your drink unattended. Cover your glass. Know where your drink comes from. My cup never left my view. I was careful. So how could this have happened?
“I’m not sure if the guy you were with when I found you was the one to give it to you, but he was definitely taking advantage of the situation,” Zach says.
This just keeps getting worse and worse. Not only did someone put something in my drink, but I was with some strange man as well? A man Zach likely forced to leave to make sure I didn’t go home with a potential rapist. The shade of red in my face deepens, evident in the intense burning overtaking my cheeks.
“Date-rape drug? Like, someone tried to...”
Zach nods. “Did you leave your drink out of your sight, at all?”
“No. I had it with me the entire time.” I must have. I wouldn’t have done something so irresponsible. But then the entire night is a blur. I can’t even remember ordering the drink. Lyndsey ordered it. That’s right. But the bartender handed it directly to me. Lyndsey told me to wait while she flirted with some guy on the dancefloor, and the rest is a wash of black. “I mean, I don’t really remember. Are you sure that’s what happened?”
“Yeah.” He stares at me, those same dangerous, thought-provoking eyes filled with something close to pity. I can’t stand it. I don’t want him looking at me that way. Like I’m some helpless damsel locked in a tower in need of sympathy and saving.
There’s nothing wrong with being saved, I suppose. There’s nothing wrong with having a helping hand every now and then. I’ve just had to protect myself for so long, maybe I can’t tell the difference between pity and concern.
“I had a friend of mine come to check you out last night.” Zach raises a placating hand, already anticipating my next question. “Yes, he’s a doctor.”
“At midnight?” What kind of friends does he have?
“He’s an on-call doctor to many of the families in town,” Zach explains. “He’s used to getting calls at all hours of the night.”
An on-call doctor? To the wealthy families in town, perhaps. Geez. How loaded is this guy?
“Well, thank you,” I say, taking another sip of coffee to steady myself. My cup trembles on my lips, the only indication that I’m not doing as well as I would like to think. If he hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t texted him, what would have happened?
“I’m sorry you felt the need to make your way into San Francisco to deal with me.”
“I was already in town.”
Of course, he was. Didn’t all wealthy, young bachelors spend their time in Bay City? So, what was he doing here on a Monday night? Visiting a girlfriend, perhaps? I keep forgetting I know virtually nothing about this man. Just because he kissed me doesn’t mean he isn’t already taken. It could just mean he is a shameless ass with no moral compass to guide him.
But then he did just rescue me.
I have to stop thinking the worst of every man I meet.
“Well, sorry for sending those messages in the first place.” Especially since now I realize Lyndsey had been texting me nonstop for twenty minutes trying to find me. Instead of responding back to her, my horny ass texts my professor in the middle of the night to come deflower me.
“I didn’t put much thought into those messages, Aly. I could tell you weren’t in the right headspace.”
Ouch.
Something ruptures in the center of my chest, just below my ribcage. It can’t be my heart. My spleen, perhaps? Why would that be bursting at the reality of his words? I’m not sure what failing organ is at the root of this sudden nausea and upset, but I do know the blame lies with Zachary Hawthorne. He could have said something along the lines of “it’s not you, it’s me,” or even “let’s just be friends.” It still wouldn’t have hurt as much as knowing the thought of having sex with me was hardly a thought in his mind at all.
“I see.” I take a seat at one of the breakfast chairs overlooking the kitchen area. It’s high up, and I practically have to hop into the chair.
“Is your friend going to be joining us for breakfast?”
“Did you make breakfast?” I feign being impressed. None of the pots or pans dangling down from the hooks overhead have been used, and as far as I can tell, he’s only made a pot of coffee.
“I tried,” he says, playing along. “But I’m afraid I am limited to the number of unexpired ingredients in my pantry. Which consisted of coffee, some sugar and this questionable bagel.”
He flips the bagel he had been eating between his fingers as if examining it for evidence of mold and disease. The look he gives it is one of equal parts of horror and hunger. I can’t blame him. I’m ready to tear into the leftovers just sitting here thinking about it.
“You still decided to eat said bagel, I see.”
He shrugs and tosses the remaining piece in the trash. “Yes, well, I take pretty good care of myself, so I figured my chances of living were in my favor.”
I laugh. Despite the alarm bells triggering in my brain, I note how nice it is just to have someone to share a cup of coffee with in the morning. Lyndsey is rarely up before I leave, and when she is, she spends an hour or more preparing for her grand entrance into the world. I don’t have time for that. I’ve never had time for that. I wake up with enough time to wash my face, brush my teeth and make myself a coffee-to-go in the morning.
Even if I had any makeup, I probably wouldn’t use it. Last night was the first time I had even worn any in a long time.
“She usually takes a while to get ready,” I say. “Especially if she is doing her hair and makeup. At least we don’t have to wait for her to find a fresh pair of clothes.”
He smiles. “Well, I ordered just some basic food. Fruit, bacon, eggs. Stuff like that. It should be here soon.”
The awkward silence drifts between us again. Do I break it? Ask him a question about the proposal? Ask him a personal question? I feel like after what happened last night, there’s no way we can go back to being casual acquaintances. Even if he doesn’t want to sleep with me, he went out of his way to protect me. Strangers don’t do that for one another. Not to this extent.
“I wanted to ask you something,” he says. Clearly, I’m not the only one unnerved by the silence. “My friend, Marianne, the one with the housing project. They need volunteers for the first leg of their project this weekend. Would you be interested in going? They have space for a vegetable garden and need some ornamental gardening to really clean the place up.”
“Ornamental gardening?” In a housing project? Most people are more concerned with patching up leaky roofs and holes in the walls. Even when they are wo
rried about the yard, it has more to do with keeping it mowed for seniors who can’t do it themselves. They’re not concerned with planting marigolds and alyssum to transform their home into a pseudo-suburbian paradise. “Is that really necessary?”
“Hey, you want something to feel like home, make it look like a home. Not a project. Marianne is really big on the design aspect. She wants everything to look like it belongs to that particular person. Not just a cookie-cutter house cut from the same mold as the next.”
This Marianne person, again. A niggling ache winches in my stomach. How close are they? He seems to think very highly of her. He buys supplies for her charity, recruits volunteers to join the building project. Am I jealous of this woman? She could be his sister for all I know. And here I am, begrudging a woman her good deeds in the community because I want the man who holds her in high regard all to myself.
“You remind me of her,” he adds. “Idealist. Wants to save the world. Plans too big to see through sometimes. But somehow, she makes it work.”
I remind him of her? Is that a good thing? It doesn’t sound terrible. She sounds amazing, actually. So why is there still that feeling like quicksand in my stomach? “I’m not an idealist.”
“Yes, you are.” He laughs. “But it’s good. We could all use more people like you in our lives.”
His smile fades like he hadn’t meant to say something so intimate. As though he revealed more than he wanted to in this confession, or at least discovered something hidden about himself. He recovers quickly, and adds, “So? Are you available?”
I’m struck by too many questions to think straight. I work until noon, but it may be an all-day sort of event. I could make it afterward if that was a possibility. And would I be going to this alone? Just because he asked me to volunteer doesn’t mean he plans to participate as well. He’s even said so himself, he doesn’t volunteer. He just pays the tab.
Still, deep down, I want to do this. I want to give back in some way or another. Every contribution I’ve made to my community this far has been to keep my mom afloat for as long as possible. Every bit of spare change I’ve had has gone to help her. Almost every spare moment of my time has been spent keeping her from tumbling over that edge, spiraling deeper and deeper into the void of depression. Drawing her back from the ledge, before I can no longer reach her to pull her back.
