Lost In Us (Lost 1)

"I'll take this from here."

"Thank God," the guy says, his voice flooded with relief as I unhitch Jess's arms from his neck. He vanishes the second I free him.

"That went well," Jess giggles in my ear. And apparently she absolutely has to hang from someone's neck tonight, because she heaves her arms around mine so forcefully I'm positive I'll have giant bruises on both sides of my neck tomorrow.

"What are you talking about?" I say, trying hard to steer us both toward the door.

"You and hot guy. You really should work on your expression, though."

"What about my expression?"

She laughs. "You looked like you were ready to jump in bed with him."

"That's not true," I say indignantly, stopping mid-stride.

"Oh trust me, it is. And by the way, he's staring at us right now so keep moving if you don't want him to see me throwing up on you."

"Stop making so much noise," Jess complains, pulling the sheet over her head.

"It's not my fault you couldn't make it to your room last night," I say, continuing to search for something suitable to wear.

It actually is my fault. When we arrived from the club last night I decided I couldn't possibly carry her all the way to her room, so I put her to bed in my room instead. I slept in her bed, something I regret more with each second. Her bedroom is the only place in our apartment where I couldn't ban smoking, and now it smells worse than a sports bar. I poured half a bottle of shampoo in my hair this morning, but I swear I can still smell smoke under the peach and melon fragrance.

"What do you think?" I ask, holding out a white strapless dress.

A deep snore is my only answer. I sigh and slip into the dress. It'll do. I'm not changing yet again. I step in front of the mirror, and as I swirl, I can't help questioning my sanity. Now that the last effects of the tequila have vanished, I am more and more convinced that I imagined the entire conversation last night. Not convinced enough though, or I wouldn't have spent the past two hours trying on almost every single dress I own. I decide it's time to walk away from my closet as the urge to try another one kicks in. I turn my attention to the wall opposite my bed instead and smile. Like Jess's room, mine too is a testament to the vices of its owner.

Chocolate, books, and DVDs.

An entire wall of them.

There are five shelves on the wall, the top three occupied with books and DVDs and the remaining two with chocolate boxes. Fancy wooden or metal boxes, or just regular plastic ones—I don't discriminate. Most boxes and cartons are empty, but I keep them because they make a nice decoration.

For the first day since the break-up, my stomach isn't twisted in a painful knot, and I don't feel the overwhelming need to pick a DVD and one of the remaining untouched chocolate boxes, then hide under my covers. I could argue it's because Jess is in my bed, and I wouldn't return in hers for anything in the world, but I know that would be a lie.

There is another reason for my sudden optimism and the absence of the knot.

It's a silly reason.

An almost absurd reason.

One that makes my heart beat quicker and my face turn hot every time I think about it.

&n

bsp; About him. About his eyes and the power his touch had on me.

I wonder if I should make Jess her beloved (and utterly ineffective) banana and kiwi hangover cure and leave it on the bedside table, but it's likely to go bad by the time she wakes up, and leaving it in the fridge will ensure she won't drink it. No, I'm sure she'll be asleep until I'm back. A rustling noise comes from the direction of the bed. As Jess resurfaces from under the sheets, a painful knot forms in my throat.

It's when she's asleep that she reminds me most of Kate. Their full lips and golden, silky locks are almost identical. I absolutely adored her, my older sister. She was four years older than me. She brimmed with life, every waking moment. She was all I ever wanted to be.

Beautiful. Radiant. Perfect.

She adored me, too. She'd spend hours taking care of me, teaching me how to comb my hair so it would shine like hers (not that it ever did) or painting my nails in intricate motifs.

Then she'd disappear for days. With her friends. Boyfriend. Whomever. Her only yardstick for choosing them seemed to be the number of times they'd visited a police station. I could find her easily in the beginning, but later on, it sometimes took me an entire week to discover her whereabouts.

When I took her home, I'd be the one taking care of her. I'd wipe away her mascara, put tea bags on the dark circles under her eyes, and lay packs of ice on the pierced veins of her arms. They were so messed up toward the end they didn't regain their normal condition no matter how much ice and ointment Mum and I put on them.