night." I laugh it off, tucking back into my cereal and chewing a big bite loudly to drown out the silence shouting back at me from the other side of the breakfast table. When I look up, Clint is still pinning me with his gorgeous stare.
"I took you to bed."
He says the words quietly, almost whispering them in his husky, deep voice. On a side note, for someone so against smoking, his gravelly tone mixed with that slight southern drawl makes him sound like he's smoked dark Cuban cigars for the last 20 years. And all I want to do is get lost in him talking like that.
It feels like I've been dunked in one of those ice baths athletes are always taking Instagram pictures in, and then set on fire. My body goes into complete shock, my thoughts coming in half sentences. He did? Did we? Why don't I remember? I slept with Clint?
"I...you..we. Did we..."
My thoughts come out of my mouth just as jumbled as they are in my head. Clint's expression is all stone, his disheveled beard and the way his big hands form around his fork distracting me from the shocking truth he just laid down next to his protein shake.
He takes a bite, slowly chewing the hunk of egg whites in his mouth while my stomach plummets to my feet and my throat goes dry as the friggin’ Sahara desert.
Finally he swallows, his large Adam's apple bobbing and again distracting me from what might be the biggest anxiety attack of my life. "I took you to your bed. You were so drunk that the guy you were sucking face with dropped you on the deck. So I took you inside, tucked you in."
Warmth and relief coat my body, leaving me slick with sweat and my heart hammering with the unneeded adrenaline it had been pumping. Asshole. He played me by twisting his words. Fucker wanted me to think that we hooked up. But why?
My cereal was too soggy to eat now, and I wasn't hungry anyway. I stared at the lumps forming in the bowl as I addressed Clint. "Why would you say it like that?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
He sighed gruffly across the table. I couldn't even look up at him. I was feeling a myriad of emotions…relief, confusion, even embarrassment. Was I ashamed that we could have hooked up and I didn't remember it? Was I disappointed that we didn't? Or was I embarrassed because once again, Clint was putting me to bed on a night where I couldn't remember my own name? Probably all of the above.
"Maybe because at some point, you're going to have a major screw up one of these nights. One day, you're going to wake up in the morning and regret what you do when you decide drinking half a handle of vodka is a good idea."
Even though his voice is barely above a whisper, Clint's voice is so sharp and scolding, it’s like he's broadcasting his disappointment to the world. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, that itchy hot feeling burns its way down the back of my throat. He's never spoken to me like this. In our almost two years of friendship, he's never once gotten mad at me. Never once spoken to me like Minka and Chloe sometimes do. Like I'm a wild child, out to do damage to myself. I'm not even sure what to say back to him.
Have I been contemplating my partying ways? Only every other day. Do I wish I could stop myself? All the time. But it’s like I'm on a path that I can't back down. That feeling of uninhibited bliss is just too good, just a little too carefree. It’s like my own personal addiction.
I don't have to answer before Clint is scraping his chair back and throwing his dishes in the sink with a bang. "Whatever Kels. Forget I mentioned it. I'll see ya later."
And with that he's gone, a couple of seconds ticking by before I hear the click of the lock on his door. I sit at the table, stunned into silence on what I thought would be a great morning. Hurt and confusion suffuse their way into my blood stream, making my body feel even more lethargic than this hangover. I didn't know whether to cry, or knock on Clint's door and verbally assault him in my
"I took you to bed."
He says the words quietly, almost whispering them in his husky, deep voice. On a side note, for someone so against smoking, his gravelly tone mixed with that slight southern drawl makes him sound like he's smoked dark Cuban cigars for the last 20 years. And all I want to do is get lost in him talking like that.
It feels like I've been dunked in one of those ice baths athletes are always taking Instagram pictures in, and then set on fire. My body goes into complete shock, my thoughts coming in half sentences. He did? Did we? Why don't I remember? I slept with Clint?
"I...you..we. Did we..."
My thoughts come out of my mouth just as jumbled as they are in my head. Clint's expression is all stone, his disheveled beard and the way his big hands form around his fork distracting me from the shocking truth he just laid down next to his protein shake.
He takes a bite, slowly chewing the hunk of egg whites in his mouth while my stomach plummets to my feet and my throat goes dry as the friggin’ Sahara desert.
Finally he swallows, his large Adam's apple bobbing and again distracting me from what might be the biggest anxiety attack of my life. "I took you to your bed. You were so drunk that the guy you were sucking face with dropped you on the deck. So I took you inside, tucked you in."
Warmth and relief coat my body, leaving me slick with sweat and my heart hammering with the unneeded adrenaline it had been pumping. Asshole. He played me by twisting his words. Fucker wanted me to think that we hooked up. But why?
My cereal was too soggy to eat now, and I wasn't hungry anyway. I stared at the lumps forming in the bowl as I addressed Clint. "Why would you say it like that?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
He sighed gruffly across the table. I couldn't even look up at him. I was feeling a myriad of emotions…relief, confusion, even embarrassment. Was I ashamed that we could have hooked up and I didn't remember it? Was I disappointed that we didn't? Or was I embarrassed because once again, Clint was putting me to bed on a night where I couldn't remember my own name? Probably all of the above.
"Maybe because at some point, you're going to have a major screw up one of these nights. One day, you're going to wake up in the morning and regret what you do when you decide drinking half a handle of vodka is a good idea."
Even though his voice is barely above a whisper, Clint's voice is so sharp and scolding, it’s like he's broadcasting his disappointment to the world. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, that itchy hot feeling burns its way down the back of my throat. He's never spoken to me like this. In our almost two years of friendship, he's never once gotten mad at me. Never once spoken to me like Minka and Chloe sometimes do. Like I'm a wild child, out to do damage to myself. I'm not even sure what to say back to him.
Have I been contemplating my partying ways? Only every other day. Do I wish I could stop myself? All the time. But it’s like I'm on a path that I can't back down. That feeling of uninhibited bliss is just too good, just a little too carefree. It’s like my own personal addiction.
I don't have to answer before Clint is scraping his chair back and throwing his dishes in the sink with a bang. "Whatever Kels. Forget I mentioned it. I'll see ya later."
And with that he's gone, a couple of seconds ticking by before I hear the click of the lock on his door. I sit at the table, stunned into silence on what I thought would be a great morning. Hurt and confusion suffuse their way into my blood stream, making my body feel even more lethargic than this hangover. I didn't know whether to cry, or knock on Clint's door and verbally assault him in my
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