Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EVE
A sledgehammer is battering my brain when I wake up.
I groan, pulling the extra pillow over my face to block out some of the sunlight streaming in through the windows.
“She’s alive.”
I groan again before shifting the pillow off my face and sitting up. I squint in the direction of Harlow’s voice. I find her sitting in the armchair in the corner, legs tucked under her and red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
“What are you doing in here?”
Each word I speak worsens the reverberations in my skull. Why did I drink so much last night?
A whiny voice whispers the answer. My life is falling apart.
“Your life is not falling apart,” Harlow says.
Oh. That whiny voice was my voice.
“Well…it’s been better.”
She nods sympathetically, ceding that point. “Is this about Ben…or about something else?”
I blow out a long breath, then wince when the exhale worsens my head’s throbbing. “It’s not not about Ben. But more…the future I’d planned with him than Ben specifically. I mean, yeah, I miss him. But—he pushed the first domino, and now the whole line is falling down. I planned everything with him, and now it feels like that’s all just…gone.”
“I know the cell service here is spotty, but I think we would have heard if New York City was no longer standing.”
I roll my eyes, and regret that movement too. Not moving at all seems like the best strategy until I swallow some painkillers. “You know what I mean.”
Harlow nods. “Yeah. I do. But I’m serious. New York’s still there. Everything you planned—it’s still there. You don’t need him, Eve. You’re brave and smart and talented and brilliant, and New York has been your dream for as long as I’ve known you. Keep chasing it.”
My throat thickens. “Thanks, H. I’m sorry I was such a mess last night.”
My memory of the bar is fuzzy, which is probably for the best. I raise my hand, squinting at the faded black marks written on my palm. I have a vague recollection of doing shots with surfers. This is Julian’s number. No, Finn. Finn was the one I kissed.
I kissed a guy who wasn’t Ben .
I wait for the rush of guilt to appear. It doesn’t, which surprises me. Not that I should feel guilty, but I thought I would . We were together for a long time. I’m not sure if the lack of shame makes me heartless or means I’m healing.
“Don’t worry about it,” Harlow replies, pulling me back to the present.
“How—how bad was I?”
Harlow waves a hand. “You were just a little tipsy.”
My stomach sinks. I know my best friend well enough to see straight through that causal phrasing. Plus, I’ve never had this bad a headache from being a little tipsy . “How bad, Harlow?”
She grimaces. “Hunter had to carry you to the car.”
Mortification sweeps through me, making me feel dizzy. “ What ?”
“It was very sweet, actually. After you threw up in the bushes, he picked you?—”
“After I what ?” I blurt, horrified.
Now that she’s bringing it up, I do have some vague recollection of my throat burning. I’ve never thrown up for any reason except a stomach bug.
Fuck . I vomited in front of Hunter Morgan . This is worse than the time I asked Peter Jenkins to the eighth grade semi-formal with toilet paper stuck to my shoe.
“I’m never leaving this bed,” I announce, then lie down and pull the pillow back over my face.
“Nuh-uh.” Harlow grabs the pillow, and then my arm, forcibly pulling me away from the mattress. “You need coffee, and Gatorade, and breakfast. Then, you can go back to bed if you want.”
“Just let me hide in here,” I plead.
Harlow holds firm, tugging me out of my room, into the hallway, and down in the direction of the bathroom. She drops her hand once we reach the doorway. “You have five minutes to pee and wash your face. Also, I’d suggest brushing your teeth. I tried to help you last night, but I think you mostly just swallowed the toothpaste.”
I glance down, noticing what I’m wearing for the first time. The jeans and skimpy top I put on last night were replaced by my favorite pair of cotton sleep shorts and the NYU hoodie I ordered online last year, thinking it would help me look like a local when I move to Manhattan.
Warmth expands in my chest. My life might be falling apart, but I have the best friend in the entire world.
I fling my arms around Harlow’s neck, nearly toppling her even though she has several inches on me. “I’m sorry I was a drunken disaster last night. Thank you for taking care of me.”
She squeezes me back. “Always. Too bad Sand Bar didn’t have karaoke.”
I groan. Ever since she heard me singing in the shower once, Harlow has tried to talk me into singing in public. She’s right; last night I would have been drunk enough to do it.
“Girl-on-girl action before breakfast? Spring break is the best .”
Harlow flips Aidan off as he saunters past us, tugging a sweatshirt over his bed head.
He laughs, then calls, “Nice to see you vertical, Eve,” over one shoulder.
My cheeks burn as I head into the bathroom and close the door.
I look like hell. I’m not sure that’s an accurate description, actually, because hell is supposedly red and fiery. I look pale and pasty. Tangled hair, sickly pallor, and dark circles stare back at me in the mirror.
Bad decisions, Eve , I tell my reflection.
I brush my teeth—twice—before washing my face. I scrub so hard my complexion is splotchy after rinsing. It’s an improvement to my appearance, sadly. I pee, wash my hands, and then pull my hair back into a ponytail with the elastic on my wrist. There’s a bottle of painkillers in the medicine cabinet. I swallow one before stepping back into the hallway, feeling marginally more human.
Harlow’s still in the hallway, but she’s not alone. In fact, I can barely see my best friend past the guy she’s playing tonsil hockey with.
An ache echoes in the center of my chest.
I’ve witnessed Harlow around plenty of guys. She’s that effortless combination of gorgeous and cool, the girl who always knows what to say and how to act. That attracts a lot of male attention. I’ve watched her interact with the opposite sex with amusement and a little envy at how easy she made flirting look. Even happily committed to Ben, I envied that allure. Wondered what it would be like to have guys tripping over themselves to talk to you. To be near you.
Ben made me happy. He made me feel secure and supported. But he never made me feel wanted . I never needed him, not in the way Conor and Harlow’s tight embrace suggests.
Seeing Harlow with Conor, I feel like a voyeur. They’re so bright together, happiness emanating like beams radiating from the sun.
Harlow has never looked that lit up with anyone else.
Ben and I weren’t that bright. At most, we were a dim glow, like one of those energy-saving lightbulbs. Content and unremarkable.
I clear my throat. “Get a room, guys.”
I hear Harlow laugh before Conor moves to the side. He glances at my best friend. Smiles. “We would’ve, but my girlfriend spent the night in yours.”
Harlow smacks his bicep.
Guilt floods me. I assumed Harlow was in my bedroom waiting for me to wake up, not that she’d spent all night in that armchair.
“Shit. I’m so sorry?—”
Harlow cuts me off. “Don’t apologize again. And—” She glances at Conor. “Don’t feel bad for him. He got laid and got to hog the whole bed last night.”
“I’m not a bed hog,” Conor protests. “I’m just taller. It’s not my fault I take up more space than you do.”
Harlow rolls her eyes before grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the stairs.
Rylan’s standing at the stove cooking eggs when I enter the kitchen. Aidan’s draped over her, his chin on her shoulder and his arms wrapped around her waist.
Another ache appears. Going on a trip with two madly in love couples fresh off a breakup was not my best idea. Not only are there the constant reminders of my single status, there are also the frequent examples that my relationship lacked more than I realized.
“Hey! Morning!” Rylan says when she spots me. “Want some eggs?”
I nod. “Yes, please.”
There’s a pot of coffee sitting out on the counter. I hunt through the cabinets until I find a mug, filling it nearly to the brim before taking a seat at the kitchen table. Even black, it’s the best thing I’ve tasted. Rich and hot and invigorating.
Harlow plops a blue bottle of Gatorade down in front of me. “Drink this too.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She pats the top of my head before taking the seat next to mine.
I’m in the middle of twisting the top off the Gatorade when the patio door opens and Hunter walks in. I figured he was still asleep in the living room, but he looks like he’s been up for hours.
And he’s…shirtless.
My body temperature instantly rockets ten degrees warmer.
As slutty as it makes me sound, my focus was…lower during Dickgate. I got a glimpse of the rest of his body—enough to tell that he’s muscular everywhere —but it was not an opportunity to really take it all in.
Heat crawls up my spine and blasts the back of my neck as I stare. Broad shoulders. Bulging biceps. Solid pecs. Stacked abs. There’s a thin line of golden hair that disappears into the elastic waistband of his black basketball shorts. And it’s framed by a defined V that points directly at what I know is a huge penis. A golden Adonis, sweaty and in the same room as me.
If Harlow’s to be believed—and I can’t think of a single reason why she would make it up—I was pressed up against that impressive physique last night. And not only did I not get to enjoy it, I have absolutely no memory of it happening.
My cheeks burn as hot as the rest of my body as I focus every ounce of my attention on twisting the plastic lid off the Gatorade.
He’s just a guy. He’s just a guy. He’s just a guy. The chant does nothing to cool me off.
I hear the low rumble of Hunter’s voice as he says something to Conor, who’s manning the toaster. All I catch is “six miles.”
He just ran six miles ?
Jesus. No wonder his muscles have muscles. I’d probably pass out after one mile. Definitely pass out today.
Aidan folds his large frame into the seat across from me. He’s every bit as tall and muscular as Hunter is, but I’ve never felt the slightest spark of attraction toward him. Not even when he was single and known as the good time guy on campus. Same with Conor. He’s ridiculously attractive, but I spoke in full, normal sentences the first time he showed up at our house, back when Harlow was insistent that she had no interest in the campus “Hart-breaker.”
Realizing I’m not harboring a secret fantasy about just any hockey player should be reassuring. But I wish this awareness wasn’t specific to Hunter. Wish I’d felt a fraction of this sensation last night with Julian. I mean, Finn.
I didn’t just remember Hunter’s name after our first conversation. I recall our entire interaction, years later.
I rub my temple, praying the painkillers will kick in soon.
Aidan gives me a sympathetic grin across the table. “How ya feeling?”
I sip some Gatorade, then more coffee. “Like there’s a construction crew working on my brain and the rest of my body got run over by an eighteen-wheeler. Sorry about last night, guys.”
I make it a group apology, careful not to look toward where Hunter’s voice was coming from last. Aside from Harlow, he’s who I feel most indebted to. And Harlow and I have years of history between us. We’ve laughed and cried together. We spent the night on the bathroom floor together after one party sophomore year. I feel bad she had to help me last night, but we don’t have the same uneven dynamic that exists between me and Hunter. He didn’t sign up to carry the drunk girl who stole his bedroom to the car because she got too wasted to walk.
Shit, that sounds bad. I don’t drink very often, which was one reason last night turned into such a disaster. I have no clue what my alcohol tolerance is, and by the time I realized I was past it, I was way past it. Too past it to consider consequences.
“Don’t sweat it,” Aidan says. “We’ve all been there.”
I doubt he’s ever thrown up in front of a secret crush, but I appreciate Aidan’s effort to make me feel better.
“When we get back to campus, you can brag that you drank three hockey players under the table,” he adds.
I reach for my mug of coffee again. “Yeah, I’ll add that to my résumé. Thanks.”
“Bon appétit.” Rylan sets a steaming pan of eggs on the table.
“Ooh la la,” Aidan says, in the worst imitation of a French accent I’ve ever heard. He pulls Rylan into his lap.
“I still need to get forks and plates,” she tells him, struggling to stand.
“Hart! Morgan! Plates and forks!” Aidan calls, not letting go.
“ You could get them,” Rylan suggests.
Aidan smirks at his girlfriend. “Nah. I’m comfortable.”
Conor approaches with a stack of plates. The top one has several pieces of buttered toast piled on it. He takes a seat on the other side of Harlow.
Hunter sits down last, a cluster of forks in one hand that clink when he sets them on the table. He has a shirt on now, but it’s the athletic kind that’s made from a fabric that clings like a second skin. So I can basically still see all his muscles.
Stop staring .
“You gonna be ready to go after breakfast?” Aidan asks Hunter.
He reaches for a piece of toast. “Uh-huh.”
“Go where?” Rylan asks.
“We’re surfing,” Aidan replies in an enthusiastic volume that worsens my headache.
“Oh. Right.”
“You sure you don’t want to try it?”
“Very sure.”
Aidan sighs. “Harlow? Eve?”
“I’m good,” Harlow says.
“Me too,” I answer. “Not feeling super athletic today.”
Truthfully, surfing would sound fun if I wasn’t so hungover. I’ve never tried it before. But the mere thought of rocking waves is making me feel nauseous. And I refuse to risk throwing up in front of Hunter again.
Conor has his phone out now, researching beaches nearby for their surfing expedition. It sounds like Harlow and Rylan are planning to tag along for a walk on the beach, and I’ll probably do the same.
Walking on the sand sounds safe, and I can bring my sketchbook. I’m sure the scenery will be stunning. A closer look at what’s essentially our backyard here.
“You sleep okay?”
I choke a little on my breakfast as Hunter’s question registers. Glance up to confirm he’s speaking to me and then hastily swallow. Once, to clear the eggs. Again, because it suddenly feels like my throat is stuffed with cotton.
I can actually feel my pulse quickening. Goose bumps rise on my arms under my hoodie. I sat in a car with Hunter for—eleven hours? Twelve? I can’t remember exactly how long our trip ended up taking with all the delays. But these weird reactions should have worn off by now. I should have developed some immunity to those blue eyes by now.
“Like the dead,” I say. “I guess the secret cure to insomnia is tequila shots.”
Great job, Eve. Keep reminding him how drunk and disastrous you were.
I clear my throat and add, “Uh, you?”
“Yeah, I slept well.”
What a nice, normal answer.
“No three-a.m. shower?”
God, what am I doing? Teasing him? Attempting to flirt? Running through a highlight reel of my most embarrassing moments?
“No three-a.m. shower,” Hunter confirms. The corners of his eyes are crinkled a tiny bit, like he’s fighting a smile.
I hope he loses.
But before I can find out, Conor passes his phone to him. “What do you think of this place?”
Hunter takes the phone. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because you have more common sense than Phillips, and this is where he’s suggesting.”
“Fuck you, Hart,” Aidan says. “I’m also the only one with surfing experience .”
Conor rolls his eyes, waiting for Hunter’s assessment.
Aidan glances at Hunter too. “What do you think, Morgan?”
I think most people would assume Conor is the leader of any group he’s part of. He was the hockey team’s captain. He’s the guy on campus everyone knows—the one girls want to be with and guys want to be. He has that presence people take note of.
But I’ve noticed, since we arrived, that Hunter gets looked to a lot. Or maybe I’m just projecting, because I look to him a lot.
“Yeah, that spot seems good to me,” Hunter says.
“Great.” Conor takes his phone back, and then he and Aidan start discussing wetsuits. I guess some came with the rental.
Hunter doesn’t strike up our conversation again. But he does glance at me once, catch me staring at him, and smile.
And that full smile does more to cure my headache than those painkillers did.