The Mixtape

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“That’s two quarters!” she exclaimed before stepping back a little. “Hey, mister. Are you dead?”

Based on how my body felt, there was a solid chance I had died at some point the previous night. The verdict was still out if I’d gone to heaven or hell. “If I were dead, would you be able to talk to me?”

“I don’t know, maybe. I never talked to a dead person before.”

“What is this, The Sixth Sense? Am I Bruce Willis?” I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. As I touched my face, more pain shot through me. I’d had rough nights before, but never one so painful.

“I don’t know what any of that means,” the kid remarked.

“Then, yes. I’m dead.”

She gasped and then hollered, “Mom! The man in my bed is dead!”

I opened my eyes once more and looked around. Why was I in a child’s bedroom? What happened to me the night before? What was going on? Who would put a stranger in their child’s bed?

Then it all started flooding back to me. The show last night . . . the show I abandoned. I ditched the performance last minute and wandered off to some random hole-in-the-wall bar to get plastered. Everything after that was a blur, including how I ended up in the bed of a child.

“Reese! What are you doing? I told you to stay out of here,” a woman’s voice whisper-shouted as she walked into the room. She grabbed the little girl by the shoulders and ushered her out as she complained the whole way.

“But Mom! There’s a dead man in my bed!”

“He’s not dead!” the woman remarked; then she glanced at me with a raised brow. “You’re not dead, right?”

I shook my head slightly.

“Oh, thank goodness. I couldn’t survive being responsible for that.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “See, Reese? He’s not dead. Now go brush your teeth. I don’t want to be late dropping you off at camp.”

She complained the whole way out of the bedroom. Seconds later, the woman reappeared in the doorway with a plate and a glass of water. On the plate sat a doughnut and a bottle of ibuprofen.

I pushed myself up to a sitting position and gripped the side of the twin-size mattress. The back of my hand brushed against my mouth as I looked up at the woman. She was stunning. Beautiful, without any effort at all.

Her dark kinky hair was pulled up in a thick messy bun with a few strays framing her face. Her eyes were wide as a doe’s. Her skin tone was a deepened brown that glowed all on its own. She was in an oversize Elton John–concert T-shirt and yoga pants. Her socks were mismatched, and she appeared as if she hadn’t slept a wink the previous night. The bags beneath her eyes revealed that fact.

Her brown eyes were beautiful. They were the best feature on her face, with a close second being her full lips. It was a shame I didn’t remember those lips sitting against my own.

Still. I hoped I hadn’t slept with her. Even though Cam and I weren’t a thing except on a surface level, I didn’t want to be that guy who stepped out on her—even if she stepped out on the regular. It wasn’t in my character. At least when I was sober.

“Here you go. I figured you could use this,” she said, handing the plate and water to me. “I would’ve made you coffee, but I’m all out right now.”

Without thought, I tossed the pills into my mouth and swallowed.

I cleared my throat. “What happened last night?” I pushed out, my throat dry and hoarse.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember anything from last night?”

“No, and other than my face feeling like complete shit, I have nothing to go on. I’m sorry—uh—I forgot your name.”

“No, you didn’t,” she mentioned, walking over to her daughter’s desk, where she picked up a handheld Disney princess mirror. “I never gave it to you.” She walked over to me and passed me the mirror, but I shook my head and pushed it away.

“I’m good,” I muttered, not wanting to face my reflection. I hadn’t looked in the mirror in the past six months. I didn’t want to start now. “I’ll take your word on what happened. So . . . what exactly happened?”

“Well, you got a bit wasted last night. A crowd formed. You got into a fight with a giant. You lost. Which explains . . . ,” she said, gesturing toward my face. “Speaking of, do you want ice for your eye? I have an ice pack I can grab if you need—”

I shook my head. “Do you have my phone?”

She walked over to a dresser drawer, picked up my cell phone, and then handed it over to me. “It’s dead. I tried to turn it on last night to call someone to get you, but it had already died.”