Chapter 22
I still argue I was sober last night. Soberish at least. Sober enough. But when the sun rises and snakes in through a crack in the blinds, I’d pay the universe a small fortune to extinguish it entirely.
I bury my head under the covers, but where my cocoon effectively blocks out the light, I’ve also inadvertently engulfed myself in Ro’s uniquely clean scent.
While his is a smell I’ve come to appreciate, right now it’s a noseful of rejection that does little to unscramble my brain or calm my churning stomach.
We’re not having sex tonight.
I wince at Ro’s words, sharp in my memory. They stab at my aching brain, quite literally adding insult to injury. At least he had the decency to leave so I don’t have to face him this morning. What was I thinking showing up here like that? Drunk and horny and shameless.
We’re not having sex tonight.
Zola was right, I am a cautionary fucking tale. And this is why I stay on the apps. If it had been an app guy, expectations would’ve been set before we even bothered with hellos. I would’ve been fucked and back home in my own bed, without wondering or caring what he thought of me.
This is what I get for drinking half a bottle of Casamigos and letting my guard down around some real-life guy. This is what I deserve.
But even as I think the words, I know they don’t fit—Ro’s not some guy and he wasn’t trying to embarrass me. At least I don’t think so. Right now, though, my head’s throbbing too badly to want to think much of anything at all.
I’m still attempting to recall the exact height of the garage, to determine if a jump from this second-story window will result in a scuff, a break, or certain death, when voices from the far side of the closed bedroom door invade my shame cocoon.
I emerge from the covers in a flurry of matted curls and regret, with an ear turned to the door.
Feet already primed to run as fast as last night’s strappy stilettos will let me.
Before I can hurl my body through the double-paned glass, Ro’s doorknob begins to turn.
Out of time and options, I do what any adult woman would do in my situation; I fake sleep.
Unfortunately, when I yank back the covers while flopping down to the mattress, they catch just enough air that they’re still gently lofting down over me long after the door swings open.
A useless parachute floating down to cover the lifeless body it betrayed thirty thousand feet ago.
Confronted with just how intensely the universe seems to hate me, I ready myself to face the consequences of my actions—this isn’t my first awkward morning after and it won’t be my last.
But when our eyes meet, I’m in so much deeper than I could’ve known.
“Oh. My. God,” I say, relieved that when I palm my chest, all my bits are still concealed by Ro’s T-shirt.
He doesn’t speak, so I’m forced to fill our stunned silence.
“Hi, Mr. Jackson.”
The apartment behind Ro’s dad goes in and out of focus as panic blurs my vision.
My heart thunders, beating way too fast in my chest and between my ears.
As if my situation wasn’t already bleak enough, it’s becoming increasingly clear that my adrenaline spiking this high against my hangover is about to result in vomit or—did I already mention certain death?
His face is scrunched in justified confusion and his next word leaves me looking much the same. “Claire?”
Who the fuck is Claire?!
“No,” I say, wondering why the ground hasn’t yet opened up to swallow me whole. “It’s Kaia. Harper.” As if it’s my last name that’s the source of his confusion.
Neither of us move for what I can only assume are multiple lifetimes.
At some point, Ro appears from behind Mr. Jackson, looking as horrified as I feel to not only have been caught half naked and hiding, but to be doing it in another woman’s spot. Claire’s.
“Shit, Pops,” he says, already guiding his father out by his shoulders. “You can’t be back here right now.”
Ro closes the door behind them, without so much as acknowledging my presence, and the instinct to fight reorients my insides in a rush. All signs of my hangover gone in an instant.
I’m on my hands and knees now, grasping at every stray piece of clothing I can find to shield myself from the karmic joke that awaits me outside.
Hidden beneath the makeshift armor that is my own shirt layered over Ro’s T-shirt, all concealed under one of his discarded sweatshirts, my rage temporarily cools enough for me to make a plan.
I’m on the edge of the bed, with my phone in hand, when I hear a knock at the door. So soft, I may have imagined it.
Please tell me I imagined it.
The door cracks open, and this time it’s Ro’s head peeking in from behind it.
He takes my silence as permission to enter, hands raised in approach. “I am so sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I bite back.
He visibly recoils. “I totally forgot they were coming.”
“They?”
“My mom’s here too. Sunday brunch.” He says it with a shrug, but the words hit me like shots fired. “We’ve been doing it since I got back. But last night I was…” Ro gestures to me, and I’m suddenly acutely aware that I’m still on his bed. “Distracted. I forgot to cancel. Are you okay?”
If he keeps talking, I’m going to scream or read him for filth. Neither of which I want to do with an audience.
“I’m fine,” I lie, and though I have no claim to this man, I can’t keep the venom from my tone. But I’m the one who showed up uninvited and unannounced. I’m the one who should be sorry.
I force steady breaths as I stand, righting the borrowed sweatshirt, covering my frantically beating heart.
“It’s my fault,” I tell him. “Just give me a minute to get outta the way.”
He doesn’t go. He’s watching me, tying his fingers in knots in front of his chest.
“Was there something else?” I ask.
“She’s asking if you’ll stay. For breakfast.”
My neck goes slack and my head falls as if it’s been severed from my body. Which may actually be a circumstance preferable to my own.
“Roooooo,” I whine, staring into the exposed ductwork overhead.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll tell ’em—”
“Fuck,” I whisper, mostly to myself, but Ro pauses to hear what’s coming next. If the situation was reversed, I know Ro would do this for me and more. “Fine,” I decide, finally. “It’s fine. Claire’s the one who should get to be mad, anyway, right?”
I practically spit the words at him, but even through my glare, I’m trying to discern if an admission or denial crosses Ro’s face. All I find there is confusion.
“Wait, why will she—”
But I can’t listen to any more. “Just tell them I’ll be right out.”
—
Mr. Jackson turns from his place at the stove when he hears me shuffling out of the bedroom.
“Ayye!” he says, with a ladle in one hand and a huge smile across his face like the last ten minutes never happened. “There she is.”
He extends his fist to me and I meet it with my own, staring through our hands to avoid meeting his eyes. He turns back to his pot, but my relief evaporates when Mr. Jackson opens his mouth once more, hollering, “Claire, get in here!”
The fuck?
A woman who could only be Ro’s mother emerges from a laundry room off the kitchen that I hadn’t noticed last night. She’s carrying a stack of cloth napkins while Ro trails dutifully behind her with other assorted linens.
I’m still looking expectantly behind Ro, for the woman in question, when his mom approaches me. “Morning, Kaia. I’m Mrs. Jackson, but with the way my husband’s been hollering, you might as well just start out calling me Claire too.”
“Oh!” I say, entirely too loudly. “Claire!” I enunciate it so dramatically, I turn her name’s single syllable into two. She’s kind enough to pretend not to notice any of it.
The furrow in Ro’s brow deepens even more, with what I’m sure is a very real concern that I may be losing my mind. He shrugs in question, but since I will not be explaining, I wave him off instead. Bringing my focus back to his mom.
“What are we doing?” she continues. “Handshakes, hugs?”
“Mom,” Ro complains.
I like her immediately for making him uncomfortable, while trying to spare me.
“What?” she says, standing beside me now. She turns so we’re both facing Ro, like she and I are on the same team. “I’m trying to respect Kaia’s space.”
If she only knew how hard I was working to get her son to disrespect my space just a few hours ago.
“I went with a fist bump,” Mr. Jackson says, still stirring his grits. “But I also didn’t ask.”
“Well, I’m just so glad you agreed to stay,” Mrs. Jackson says, like I had a choice.
Before today, I would have sworn Ro was his dad’s twin, but now I’m not so sure. His smile is Mr. Jackson, but the gleam in his eyes, his expressions, the way he carries himself? That’s all his mom.
And she wraps her arms around me as she says, “I’ve been dying to meet you.”
—
By the time we sit down to eat, the apartment smells like every family reunion I wish I’d had growing up. The morning’s awkwardness has lifted enough that I’m now able to make direct eye contact with Ro’s parents, but the smile in his mom’s eyes remains. She hasn’t forgotten.
Our brunch conversation is mostly Kaia and Ro Trivia, with his parents recounting everything they already know of our last couple months.
It’s more than I would’ve expected, though they seem to be missing a few key details from our time in the city.
I’m more than happy to fill in the blanks for them, though they aren’t nearly as surprised by Ro’s dramatics over the oysters as they are by the prospective sale of his live installation.