My head feels like there’s a rave party inside, the DJ is smashed, and everybody is wearing heels.
I wipe my eyes wearily and reach for the water bottle, taking a long sip before the pieces of last night’s puzzle fall into place. When they do, horror surges through my veins, like ropes of pain chaining me to watch a slow-motion replay of the train wreck that was my last night’s behavior.
He admitted to having a foursome and to participating in endless one-night stands.
I ran like a little idiot because he admitted to fooling around with other women while single.
I asked him to kiss me.
I hiccupped like a moron.
He rejected me.
I sneezed on his face.
He took me home and ran for his life.
I sneezed on his face!
Then I remember him taking care of me—the sweet way he tucked me in, the ibuprofen, the kiss—and that makes me feel even worse.
I bury my head under my pillow and burrow deeper into my sheets. If only I could disappear beneath my covers and pop back out with someone else’s life (preferably Jenna Dewan Tatum’s), all would be well. There is no point crying. I have an early class today and I promised Nana Marty I’d drop by and congratulate her about the wedding. I have no time for self-pity.
Reluctantly, I peel myself from my bed and sit up, holding my head in my hands so it won’t explode all over the carpet (but only because that would ruin Izzy's chances of getting her deposit back). I see my cell phone on my nightstand beeping with light and check it.
Two missed calls from Shane.
One from Mom.
One text from an unknown number.
You owe me that date.
I don’t recognize the number, but I sure as hell recognize the commanding tone. I want to punch myself in the face for the woozy sensation swelling in my stomach, but I can’t help it. He actually took the time and effort to take my number and save his on my phone under the contact Ty Wilder. Even after my little drunken scene.
I type back too fast and too eagerly for my own good. You owe me that interview.
A moment later, I receive his reply. I said I’d give it to you if we had a date. That wasn’t a date. It was an open invitation for rape. At best.
Ignoring his criticism, I text, I need your interview. The assistant to the XWL president has already sent me some quotes. You’re the only person I have left. Stop being a diva.
What are you doing tonight?
Just hangin’. I hit send and then add, With my grandma.
Sounds wild. I’ll pick you up from her place.
So you can tell me more about your sexual conquests? No thanks.
You asked. And I've already told you, you're different. I'm waiting for granny's address.
Keep waiting, I type and immediately erase. You can keep asking me on dates. We'll never be a couple. Erasing again and puffing out air aloud, I finally write, Don’t be late.
Oh, Blaire, you stupid little girl, Heart reprimands.
Why am I going on a second date with this guy? His ego is the last thing I need right now. Then again, I must admit he was nothing but sweet to me.
My fingers move on the screen again. Hey, thanks for being a gentleman. I hit the send button before I can change my mind,
Don’t get used to it. Next time I won’t be.
***
Shane and I are basking in the sun on our favorite red bench, drinking coffee.
He steals another sideways glance at me, messing with his phone and avoiding looking at me directly. He wears an “I Hate Being Bipolar. It’s Awesome!” tee. I know I look like a hungover mess because my hair is wild and my eyes are bloodshot, but he doesn’t ask what I was up to last night, and I don’t bring the subject up either.
“Who are you texting?” I eye him suspiciously, taking a long sip from my double-shot espesso.
“No one.”
“Hi, Bullshit, I’m Blaire. Nice to meet you.” I smirk at him.
He looks embarrassed, pulling his hoodie all the way down his nose so I can’t see his face.
“Shane Panty-Creamer Kinney! Tell me who you’re texting right freaking now.” My smirk widens. Maybe he’s got a new dip. Maybe it’s serious. Maybe I’m out of the doghouse.
He looks around. “I’m not texting anyone, I’m looking into reporting a crime. Someone slashed my tires and keyed my Mustang. And they did a hella good job.”
“Shit.” I jump up from the bench to face him. “You should definitely file a report. Show me what they did.”
“Slashed tires, remember,” he declares gravely. “I had to take the bus.” His voice hints at something more serious, like I have stage 4 cancer or World War III is coming.
“You still lived to tell the tale.” I pat his arm. “Instead of throwing a pity party, you can just go to the police.”