Chapter 30
My head is a death metal concert trapped in a tin can, and my tongue's been mummified in sandpaper. The first coherent thought that breaks through the hangover haze is pain. The second is Caleb—because his scent is everywhere, and my body remembers exactly why before my brain catches up.
I jerk away from his pillow so fast the world tilts like I'm on one of those spinny teacup rides at Disney. Except there's nothing magical about this morning after. Especially since there wasn't even a proper morning after to be mortified about.
Oh sweet merciful goddess.
Memories flood back. Every single moment in vivid horror. Me, straddling him in the dark like some touch-starved succubus. His hands on my hips, rough and perfect, and everything I'd imagined. The way I'd—nope. That's a path of shame I'm not ready to skip down.
I chuck his pillow across the room and immediately regret moving at all as my stomach does its best impression of a washing machine on spin cycle.
"This is completely fine," I inform the empty room, my voice raw and scratchy. "Everything's totally fine. Another day where I definitely didn't throw myself at my best friend like a cat in heat."
Except it's about as fine as that time I tried to cleanse my shop with sage and set off the sprinkler system instead. Because last night, drunk-me decided to beg my best friend to ruin our friendship with his stupidly perfect mouth, and got shut down hard.
We can't.
The words bounce around my skull. He hadn't even said he didn't want to—he'd said we can't.
That's the knife that keeps twisting, each word another shot to my already bleeding dignity. Not with me. Because apparently Caleb Miller will hook up with half the female population of Hallow's End, but I don't even make the B-list of potential mistakes.
I glance down and—perfect—I'm still wearing his shirt, the soft cotton hanging to mid-thigh like some boyfriend trophy I never earned the right to claim.
The same one he tossed at me last night during my strip-tease-gone-wrong impression.
Because that happened. That was a choice I made.
Past Ivy really said, "Let's speed run through every embarrassing moment possible," and went for gold.
"Get it together," I mutter, trying to stand. "You're fine. This is—"
My stomach heaves.
Not fine not fine not fine.
I barely make it to the bathroom, slamming into the doorframe in the process. The tile hits blessedly cold against my skin as I drop to my knees, offering last night's tequila to the porcelain goddess.
And because the universe hates me, that's when my brain decides to remind me about Sarah.
I word-vomited everything to her last night. Every secret feeling I've kept locked in my chest since Caleb first smiled at me with those stupid dimples freshman year. Every time his touch lingered too long, every loaded look that made my heart race.
My stomach lurches again, and I'm not sure if it's the tequila, or the memory of my tipsy self spilling secrets. Please tell me Sarah blacked out. Please tell me her martini-marinated brain wiped the whole thing.
The sound of the room door opening freezes me mid-heave.
No.
Footsteps approach the bathroom.
Please no.
I try to army crawl toward the door, desperate to lock it before—
"Ivy?"
I freeze, ass in the air, fingers inches from the handle. And of course, there's Caleb, casually watching me flop around in nothing but his damn shirt.
Which is when I realize where my face is positioned in relation to his body. As in, dead center with his crotch. My cheeks go up in flames as my eyes snag on the zipper of his jeans, and there it is—that ghost of sensation, hips grinding into mine, like my skin never forgot.
Our eyes lock, and the air sizzles. His pupils blow wide, jaw clenching in a way that sends sparks straight between my legs. Because my body hasn't gotten the memo that we're not doing this. That he doesn't want this. Want me.
My stomach chooses that exact moment to remind me why I was crawling in the first place.
"Oh no," I whimper, lunging for the toilet.
At least now I know exactly what rock bottom feels like—it's cold, ceramic, and currently pressing against my forehead while the guy I tried to seduce last night gets a front-row seat to this glamorous morning after.
Warm hands gather my hair back from my face, and the gentle touch makes everything worse because it's so Caleb.
"I hate this entire universe," I mumble between heaves.
"Even me?" His palm slides down my spine in slow circles.
"Especially you." My stomach clenches again. "And Sarah's stupid pink drinks. And those penis straws. And—" Another wave hits. "And your stupid hands being all . . . gentle right now."
"Want me to stop?" But his fingers are already working the magic spot at the base of my neck that has me melting.
"No." I press my cheek against the cool porcelain. "Yes. Maybe just . . . be awful for five minutes? Tell me how gross this is. Tell me I'm the worst drunk mess you've ever—"
"Can't do that, Shortcake." His thumb hits a spot that makes me groan. "Besides, you're kind of cute when you're all pathetic and hungover."
"I will aim for your shoes."
"Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried. Though usually it's not the girl I—"
"Don't." I wave him off. "Just let me perish in peace."
"You sure that's what you want?"
No. Stay. Keep touching me like that. Keep pretending last night never happened.
"I'm sure." I attempt a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "Just trying to salvage whatever dignity I have left."
He hesitates at the door. "I'll be right outside."
The moment he's gone, I slump against the wall.
I scrub my teeth until my gums protest, and spend too long on my makeup, trying to pass for someone who hasn't had her heart torn in two. The mirror doesn't help. Neither does hearing Caleb moving around in the other room, wondering why I'm taking so long to come out and face him.
"Get it together," I mutter, gripping the sink. "You're fine. You're Beyoncé." I pause. "Okay, you're not Beyoncé. Beyoncé wouldn't beg for her best friend's dick. But you're . . . something. Someone that doesn't die of embarrassment after one rejection."
When I finally step out, my heart betrays me with a flutter.
Because there's Caleb—six feet of temptation sprawled on the edge of the bed like a walking billboard for everything I can't have.
His hair's still a mess from sleep, that too-soft T-shirt stretched over the shoulders I clung to last night.
He won't meet my eyes, but there's coffee, water and Advil waiting on the nightstand, because he's determined to kill me with kindness.
I make a beeline for the couch, doing my best to ignore the wrongness that clings to the space between us.
"Thanks," I manage, reaching for the water. Caleb's fingers twitch, as if he's about to help, but he stays still.
The silence stretches between us, taut and fragile. I can't read his expression—can't tell if he's mad, or uncomfortable, or simply waiting for me to speak first.
"Listen—" I begin, at the exact moment he says, "About—"
We both stop like someone hit pause. Great. Perfect. This isn't awkward at all.
Just rip the band-aid off.
"I'm so sorry," I blurt out. "About last night. I was drunk and . . ." The laugh I force out sounds like it's been put through a wood chipper. "That would've been such a mistake, right?"
Mistake.
The word burns coming out, because it's the biggest lie I've ever told. But he doesn't need to know that. He's so quiet I swear I hear my dignity shriveling.
"I mean," I continue, because apparently, I hate myself, "can you imagine? Us?" I wave between us like an idiot. "Plus, I probably had tequila breath and—"
"Ivy."
"—and you were being nice, letting me down easy—"
"Ivy!"
I snap my mouth shut.
Caleb shoves his hand through his curls, leaving them standing on end, and I hate that I know what that means—he's nervous. Caleb Miller doesn't do nervous. He does cocky and charming and sure of himself. But right now, he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, and that hurts.
"You don't have to make this okay," he says finally. "I know I—"
"But it is okay!" My voice goes squeaky at the end. "Really. You were being a good friend. Making sure I didn't do something stupid because I was drunk and . . ." Lonely. Wanting you. Tired of pretending I don't.
His eyes lock on mine, and for the briefest heartbeat, a fissure runs through that carefully blank expression.
Then his lips curve into his signature smirk, and relief hits me so hard I deflate against the couch cushions. "Never seen someone try to seduce me with hiccups before. Gotta say, that's a new one."
"That's me," I manage, clinging to his humor like a life raft, "breaking new ground in bad decisions."
"At least you didn't throw up on me." He grins. "Too soon?"
"Yeah, how about we never mention last night or this morning again?"
"Deal."
Just like that, we're back to normal. Or something close to it. Even if part of me wants to scream that none of this is fine.
"You should get ready," he says, pushing off the bed. "Wedding walkthrough in an hour."
"Right." I wrap my arms around my ribs like that'll keep my heart from spilling out all over the floor.
He pauses in the doorway, and for one stupid second, hope claws its way up my throat. That he'll turn around. Say something real. Make last night count for more than just another almost.
Instead, he nods. "See you down there."
The moment the door clicks shut, I collapse back against the couch and dig my palms into my eyes until colors burst behind my lids.
"Get it together," I whisper to the empty room, but my voice cracks on the last word.
Maybe he never saw me that way. Maybe it was always me, mistaking scraps of attention for something real. That's worse. Because if I imagined it all, then I'm even more pathetic than I wanted to believe.
Movement is the only thing keeping me from falling apart, so I walk to the suitcase and start pulling out clothes even though my chest is splintering open. I make everything easier for everyone else, smooth things over, pretend I'm not hurt when I am.
Two more days.
Just forty-eight hours of pretending I'm fine. Of holding it all together and acting like nothing's changed. Of swallowing the phantom taste of his mouth. Of being the girl who can joke about almost fucking her best friend like it wouldn't have destroyed me if he'd said yes.
I can do that.
I have to.
Because Caleb Miller might not want me, but I'd rather have pieces of him than nothing at all.