7. Bailey
seven
Bailey
What is that noise.
Fucking hell.
The shrill sound assaults my skull, harassing my ears without explanation.
I groan, rolling over to grab my phone from the bedside table. The room tilts, spinning on its axis. Perhaps I overshot the alcohol to blood ratio last night.
My mouth tastes like beer and regret. My tongue is wearing a sweater and my teeth have on socks. I gag at the thought, a wave of nausea washing over me.
I hit snooze and lay back down, throwing my pillow over my face to block out the sunlight mocking me through the window. Smug bastard, Mr. Brightpants. Mr. Good Morning. Presumptuous of you to assume I’m ready for the day, sun.
“Great,” I croak.
What the fuck happened last night?
Memories of dancing with Nat. Laughter. Beer. So much fucking beer.
I groan and throw the pillow on the floor, risking the light once again.
The ceiling stares down at me like it knows something I don’t.
There’s always uncertainty after a night like that. A moment of quiet. A blank canvas just waiting to show you your latest creation.
Fragments of interactions. Sensations. Images.
Dancing.
Beer.
A door.
The long hallway with too many people. Are those two fucking?
I laugh at that, but it’s quickly extinguished.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Trying to squash the memory before it finishes loading.
Spilled beer.
A solid, warm chest.
Crop-top and brown eyes. Flawless Sienna skin.
Panic. Embarrassment.
His body. Warm. Solid. Unwavering.
His voice. Calm and soothing.
“It’s fine,” he says, a caress against my skin. A powerful jawline and broad shoulders. The most alluring mouth I’ve ever seen.
I push my palms into my eyes.
Nope. No, sir. We’re not doing this. No fucking way.
But my asshole brain, coy fucker that he is, continues its traitorous storyline without apology.
Breath.
Hands.
Mine.
His.
Brown eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled in the memory, reliving it in high definition.
“Okay,” I mutter in some semblance of acceptance. “It could always be worse, right?”
I inhale a shaking breath, letting it out slowly, as if the unanswered questions might float alongside the expiration.
I hear his voice. Smooth, warm.
Would you be opposed to something like this?
My entire body stills. Frozen.
“No,” I whimper.
But it’s not a statement or a question.
It’s a memory.
My breath hitches, getting caught in my throat. Warmth settles in my stomach. Regret? Something else I’m not ready to examine nestles in right alongside it.
His hand on my chin, my lips parting with invitation.
Oh, oh no.
My cheeks burn as I remember bee-lining through the door in an absolute panic, as if I suddenly remembered I left the oven on. Years of Sunday mornings and Wednesday night services hitting me with a barrage of shame as I catapulted down the hallway.
I sit straight up in bed, regretting it immediately as the room spins with renewed fervor.
“Nope.”
“Absolutely the fuck not.”
But it’s too late. It’s too real. The fragmented memories are too well constructed to be imagined.
This isn’t just a matter of time travel. This is bad. Bad, bad. I kissed a guy. Like, really kissed him.
Fuck. Me.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan, dragging both hands down my face.
I reach for a few more shards, daring to see the pieces my mind hasn’t yet shown me.
A heavy, electric, terrifying feeling dares to make itself at home in my chest.
I swallow thickly in defiance. Trying to ignore the lingering sensation.
I bring my hand to my lips. Questioning the soundness of my state of mind. The validity of my memories. This is why I ran.
My bullshit knows no bounds. I have now far surpassed the mechanical bull video and have rocketed myself into a new dimension of fuckery. Making out with a guy in a stranger’s bathroom was not on my bingo card. I’m not gay. I’m not even bisexual. How drunk was I?
Did I like kissing him?
I don’t even finish the thought. The answer is already written.
I slowly swing my legs over the side of the bed. Afraid to move too quickly and risk the entire room spinning out of control again.
I roll my eyes and groan, placing my head in my hands in defeat.
“Okay, Bailey. Get your shit together,” I mumble.
What now? Quit drinking entirely?
Nope. That’s not it. Fuck that.
“Okay,” I mutter. “New time travel precautions.”
I pause, uncertain. Maybe we just skip the part where we kiss other guys? Yep. That tracks. Let’s just not do that again. It’s probably the best way to stay off my mom’s prayer list and my dad’s shit list.
“Beto?” I say, loud enough for him to hear me from the other room. “New rules!”
I wait for a beat, like he’s going to answer.
“I will not drink around tall, hot, beer-soaked strangers in crop tops again. Ever.”
There. That seems reasonable, right?