Now I’m breathing and breathing heavily.
Why are those words so fucking hot? Why? There is nothing sexual in his words, but it still feels implied, and I don’t know what to make of it.
“Stubble.” I giggle again and then quickly cover my mouth with my hand. “Stop giggling!”
He said absolutely nothi
ng that warrants the level of excitement I have, and I need to get a grip. He was being polite, that’s all, and I’m acting like a lovestruck teenager.
“You’re drunk and making way too much of this,” I say aloud. “Get your ass to bed.”
I type out one final message before putting the phone away.
Goodnight, Nate.
I pour the rest of my water into Vee’s pot and stumble to the bedroom. I crawl under the blankets, my mind still racing, convinced I’ll never fall asleep. I grab the phone and re-read the text a few more times, imagining his dark eyes, square jaw, and totally caressable stubble.
“That is not a word,” I mumble. “You’re being ridiculous. Stop it.”
I place the phone on the nightstand and roll away from it. The alcohol takes its toll, and I fall into a dreamless sleep.
In the morning, my head is pounding. Clearly, I did not drink enough water before I went to bed, and no number of pills is going to make up for it. It’s also Sunday, and I have no plans or chores I have to do. I was going to prepare for job hunting, but since I already have a lead, that seems rather pointless.
I moan as I roll out of bed and get myself more water and something for the headache. My laptop is sitting on the table, still open from last night. I log in, trying to remember why I had it out in the first place, and find an article displayed on the screen about the Orso family’s contribution to the Eastside Boys and Girls Club.
I have a vague recollection of myself hovering over my phone, typing out something about licking stubble, and my stomach suddenly feels like it’s dancing at a late-night rave.
“Ah, shit!” I smack myself on the forehead. “I was drunk texting!”
I race to my phone, terrified of what I might have written, but it seems I did not make a fool out of myself. I read over Nate’s texts a couple of times and then breathe a long sigh.
“I am making way too much of this. I know I am.” I set the phone on the table between my laptop and Vee, sighing again. “This is how I reacted when Justin and I first started dating—all worked up over every little word he lobbed in my direction. In other words, acting like a total idiot.”
Justin had been my one and only serious boyfriend in high school. He played trumpet in the marching band, and I thought he looked so cool in his uniform. He was sweet and caring and very open about his feelings. He was particular open about them when he came out as gay on our prom night, approximately an hour after losing our mutual virginities to one another and thus ending the relationship.
Needless to say, it hit me a little hard.
Despite his protests that it had nothing to do with me or the sex, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was so bad in bed, I actually turned a man gay. I knew that wasn’t true, but damn—talk about timing! He moved to Philadelphia right after graduation, and I never heard from him again. After that, I had a few dates but never anything serious. In fact, last night was the first “successful” date I’d had since high school.
“It wasn’t a date,” I remind myself. I glance at the laptop screen. “I don’t know this guy. I can’t even figure out what his family’s business is. It can’t just be that club and maple trees. Clearly his family is into all kinds of stuff, which means all kinds of money. How many times did Aunt Ginny warn me about people with money?”
Vee doesn’t provide a number, but I bet she remembers the conversations.
Aunt Ginny led a modest life. The antique business paid the bills and allowed us to rent a condo at Deep Creek twice a year—once in the summer and once in the winter. She worked hard for what we had and expected me to contribute as soon as I was old enough to earn a wage outside of the household. She believed people with a lot of money tended to spend it on lavish things that “no one in their right mind needs” and decadence was “the pathway to misery.”
She was never particularly forthcoming as to why money equaled misery, but she did beat it into my head from a very young age, and I tend to agree with her. The people in our hometown were moderate people with moderate views and all in the same, roughly middle-class bracket. Of course, that also means I’ve never really known anyone with a lot of money.
My phone dings, and my heart stops. I glance down, afraid to pick up the phone at first. Considering I haven’t had a text from anyone in weeks, I already know it’s a text from Nate.
Nate O: Good morning, Cherry. I hope you slept well.
“Nate-O.” I can’t help but laugh, even in my slightly hungover state. It just sounds funny. I collect myself and pick up the phone, typing quickly.
I did, thank you. My head is still recovering from the martinis though. I should have stopped earlier. Lol!
I tense as I wait for his response. It takes a while before it comes through.
Nate O: I take full responsibility for any ill effects you may be suffering this morning. I would send a good hangover-style breakfast to your door if I knew your address. Alas, only the cab driver knows for sure.