Chapter 9
The next morning, I wake to the soft snoring of Argyros curled at the foot of the bed.
My skull feels like it’s stuck between two warring nations, every throb a cannon blast. Pure agony.
My throat is dry and raw, but the thought of leaving Hayes’s bed for water—let alone trekking to the kitchen—feels like a Herculean task.
I burrow deeper under the silky sheets, shutting my eyes against the sliver of daylight sneaking past the thick blackout curtains.
Seriously, what kind of idiot goes shot-for-shot with a football player?
Me, that’s who.
Fragments of last night stitch together in my mind, bright and disjointed flashes like fireworks.
Baklava.
Dylan.
Too much wine.
Shots with Dylan.
More wine.
And, oh yeah, somehow winding up in my best friend’s bed without my pants.
My skin heats at the memory of a half-naked Hayes lying beside me. The rise and fall of his muscular chest. The easy weight of his arm around my waist, as if it belonged there. His cool breath on my neck. The way my heart slammed against my ribs from being so close to him.
But then I shove the memory aside, pushing the covers back and quickly yanking my hair into a makeshift ponytail. Thinking about Hayes that way… it’s dangerous, for so, so many reasons.
I take a peek to my left to see if he’s still asleep, but the space next to me is already empty.
Oh.
My stomach lurches in protest as I sit up too fast. I curl forward, arms wrapped around my midsection. It feels like an alien is trapped inside, clawing its way out through my intestines.
Last Halloween, Hayes thought it would be fun to have an Alien movie marathon. Neither of us had ever seen the early ones from the ’80s.
I’ll never forget watching the chestburster scene for the first time. I’d jumped about ten feet in the air when the alien exploded from a man’s body, killing him in a bloody, gory massacre. Hayes, however, had laughed his ass off.
After the movies, I stayed for dinner. Right before dessert, Hayes started choking and gasping and then fell over backward across the dining room table like he was having a seizure. Then his chest erupted, a fountain of blood squirting everywhere.
His shirt.
The dinner table.
My face.
I nearly had a heart attack until I realized it was ketchup, not blood. The whole thing had been an elaborate prank. Hayes could be a real bastard when he wanted to. Suffice it to say, neither I nor his parents were amused.
After I recovered from wanting to kill him, I had to give him credit. It was kind of brilliant, though I still feel queasy every time I think about that dinner.
With great difficulty, I maneuver myself into a sitting position in Hayes’s bed.
My stomach makes a series of desperate, gurgling sounds.
I’d better get up—and soon—before I throw up again, this time all over Hayes’s expensive 800-thread-count sheets.
Then he’d really regret having me spend the night.
No way my pretty, polished little sister wakes up puking in bed.
I clutch my belly, rocking in place as I scan the room with blurry eyes. Both Hayes’s car keys and the black LHU Football gym bag he keeps by his closet are gone.
Then I remember—it’s Sunday. Practice day.
That means film review, rehab, light conditioning. Hayes never misses a Sunday team session, no matter how wrecked he might be from the weekend.
I shuffle into his bathroom with Argyros faithfully on my heels. The dog waits beside me while I empty what’s left of last night into the toilet. Afterward, I flop around on the cold marble floor dramatically.
“I think I’m dying,” I croak to the dog.
Argyros edges closer and licks my hands, then my cheeks, trying to comfort me while Hayes’s fancy toilet flushes itself. I bury my face in the soft fur of his backside, moaning pathetically but too hungover to care.
I lie there for a good twenty minutes, clinging to the dog like he’s my life raft. Only when the nausea finally eases do I inch toward the sink like a zombie, splash cold water on my face, and rinse my mouth with minty mouthwash. Then I drink greedily from the faucet with cupped hands.
All I want is to crawl back into Hayes’s bed and stay there, but that’s not an option. I’ve got work to do, and the clock is ticking. Since I—definitely foolishly—turned down Amber’s offer of help last night, I have to figure this NYU thing out on my own.
The play would’ve been helpful, but it isn’t the only way to prove I’m worthy of admission.
There’s YouTube. TikTok. Spotify. Plenty of ways to showcase my music, if I’m willing to put myself out there.
If I want to be taken seriously as an artist, I need to start acting like one.
Real artists create. They take risks. They get rejected and then keep going.
And I need to talk to my mother, too.
Before I can fully commit to the idea of New York next year, I need to know what those letters to my father meant. If something snapped inside her after he left, I have to understand. I can’t just pack up and move to the other side of the country without knowing what happened and if she’ll be okay.
As I head out of Hayes’s bedroom, I grab my jeans from a crumpled pile in the corner and pull them on, still mildly embarrassed I stripped them off in my drunken state even if I have no memory of it.
Then I stop at Hayes’s closet and grab an oversized hoodie that reads “Laguna Hills University Chimeras, Feel the Roar” in bold gold lamé.
The school mascot—a snarling fusion of lion, goat, and serpent—stretches across the chest, ferocious.
I slip the sweatshirt over my wrinkled top and push my hands into the sleeves, welcoming the warmth.
Argyros whines, tail low, giving me the saddest eyes imaginable when I get to the garage door. I try to say goodbye but he’s not having it, so I decide to bring him home with me instead. He’s just so darn cute. How could I not?
I figure I can sneak him into the apartment for a few hours while I work.
With any luck, I can get him back to Hayes’s place later this afternoon, before Mom or Amber show up.
Amber’s high school homecoming dance is coming up soon, which means she’ll be working late, hustling for extra money to buy a new dress.
No way my sister would be caught wearing the same thing twice.
As soon as I get home, I pop two Extra Strength Tylenol and down a bottle of Gatorade. Then I faceplant onto my futon, dragging the covers up to my chest.
I’d planned to use the quiet today to brainstorm material for my transfer application, but I still feel like roadkill. I tell myself I’ll just rest for a bit—close my eyes, let the meds kick in—and work once I feel human again. NYU can wait a few more hours.
Argyros hops into bed beside me, curling into my side like a living furnace. He presses his warm snout to my stomach and immediately drifts off, snoring softly. I watch him twitch and yip in his sleep for a while, then shut my eyes, willing myself to do the same.
But sleep won’t come.
Sunlight slices through the uncovered casement windows, searing straight through the midnight-blue sheets I’ve pulled over my head. What I wouldn’t give for Hayes’s blackout curtains. And—fine—maybe his warm body too.
I shake the thought loose before it spirals. That’s another thing I need to get a handle on: no more sexy-time fantasies about Hayes.
Frustrated, I kick the covers off and grab my laptop. If I can’t sleep, maybe some background noise will help.
I scroll through Netflix until I land on Glee. I find the flash-forward episode—the one where Rachel’s finally made it to Broadway. It’s my favorite. I’ve seen it at least a dozen times, and it always gets me. If only that were me…
Hours later, a loud knock jolts me awake.
“Alysander?”
My mother’s voice drifts in from the hallway. I throw off the covers and squint toward the windows. The sun has vanished, leaving my bedroom cloaked in darkness except for the faint blue glow of my laptop’s sleep screen.
Damn. I must’ve dozed off during the show and slept through the entire day.
“Honey?” The doorknob jiggles. “You in there?”
Beside me, Argyros stretches and yawns. I glance at him, my stomach sinking. So much for driving the dog home before anyone found out he’d been here. My mother is definitely not going to be happy about this.
Oh well.
Too late to do anything now. It’s not like I can hide a hundred-pound wolf-dog in my bedroom the size of a broom closet.
“Come in,” I say, bracing myself.
My mom steps inside, her eyes immediately narrowing at the sight of Argyros.
“Alysander Sage Smith!” Her mouth tightens into a frown. “What is that animal doing here?”
“Uh, what animal?” I deadpan, tugging the sheet over Argyros’s head.
He paws it off, giving me a deeply unimpressed look.
“What part of no dogs in my house did you not understand?”
She tugs at the end of her long blonde fishtail braid, lips tight, like she’s doing everything she can not to fully explode on me. Even riled up, she’s still beautiful.
In her flowy cotton boho dress and glitter Birkenstocks, she looks more like Amber’s older sister than someone’s mom.
Total flower-child vibes—the opposite of my gothy-punk aesthetic—but over time, I’ve come to respect it.
At least she’s true to herself. Comfortable in her own skin, no matter who’s watching.
“Sorry. I fell asleep,” I mutter. “I was going to take him back before you got home. I swear.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Mom, come on.” I push up onto my elbows. “This whole thing is ridiculous. I’m almost eighteen. I can smoke. I can vote. Hell, I can be drafted into war. I can have my own dog,” I say. “If it’s a money thing, I’ll get a job. I’ll cover everything myself.”
“It’s not about the money!”
Her voice falters, just for a second, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Mom has always been sensitive about finances. Being a struggling single parent in our affluent town can’t be easy.