Page 27 of This I Promise You
Once my stomach is done, I get up and wipe my mouth with some toilet paper and check to make sure I didn’t get anything on my… Wait. This isn’t my shirt. I had on a white tee and a red plaid button-up when I left for the party last night, but that’s not what I’m wearing now. I’ve never seen this shirt in my life. It’s this oversized—at least for me—retro-looking yellow t-shirt withLAKERSwritten across it and a basketball. It’s hideous.
Who the hell did I go home with last night? Please at least have been hot…and have used a condom.Your shirt, Easton. Just find your shirt.
I find the closet, and it’s impeccably organized. Like a serial killer, and the bathroom was as clean as the bedroom. Ed Kemper’s mug shot blares behind my eyes and I can hear Samantha’s voice telling me how he kidnapped and killed six college students that night she made me stay up to watch some murder special before I left for college. For a second, worry coats my stomach and I think I’m going to vomit, but I push it back. It isn’t a first for me.
I give up looking for my shirt. It’s not here. Fuck the shirt, I’ll keep this one. It’s time to get out of here.
I start toward the second door and carefully twist the handle.Please let them be out. I don’t want to know who it was.But what if they’re here? I stop twisting the knob. Why do I do this?
“This is not good,” I whisper and slowly twist and push. I peek through the crack. Looks like a kitchen directly ahead, and maybe a living room. Maybe.
Please don’t be home.
I ease the door open and slip through. I head straight for what looks like the living room. Whoever I let fuck me last night at least has style. The room is well kept and dotted with splashes of color and art. It’s actually inviting.
Then I find my goal. The door. I think that’s the exit. I squint, struggling to see past the sunlight blaring through the window blinds. Hangovers suck. My knee slaps something hard, and I almost double over onto the floor.
“Shit!” I yelp, my eyes landing on the end table I just kneed. Then my eyes catch movement and I freeze.
Someone’s on the couch! “What the hell!” the person yells.
“Who are—” My words catch in the back of my throat. Paul? What the hell am I doing at Paul’s? Wait! Did I? “Did we?”
“What? Did wefuck?” He throws his hands up likeI’mcrazy, but I’m the one in someone else’s house. “Fuck no!”
His response hits differently than I expect, and it doesn’t help that my eyes catch on his naked chest. Oh. My. God. Now I’m wishing we had and I hadn’t been drunk.
Focus, Easton. Like, that’s the best answer, right? I should be glad he didn’t—as long as he isn’t lying—because he’s a dick, but my brain shoots a drop of sadness in my veins. It’s the way he said it, like he wouldn’t ever want to be with me.
What the hell, Easton. Get a grip.
“Then why am I here?” I yell back, willing myself to keep my eyes locked on his instead of trailing south with his tattoos where a little trail of hair disappears beneath his pants.
“You were absolutely wasted last night and you calledmeto come pick you up.” Paul shrugs as if it’s the most sensible thing in the world, but why the hell would I call him? “I don’t know where you fucking live, and you wouldn’t tell me, so I had to bring you here. And you’re welcome for washing your puke-drenched shirt, by the way.”
He reaches to a table next to the couch and grabs a plaid button-up and t-shirt and throws them at me. I catch them. They’re mine, and they smell freshly laundered. Oh.
“You even threw up in the back of my car. Theentireback seat. So fuck you very much because I had to clean that shit up before I could go to bed at three in the morning,” he goes on, but he’s not done. “And you’re welcome for the bed.Islept outhereinstead. You didn’t puke on it did you?”
“Uh…no.” I drop my head and glance away. “But how did I call you? I don’t have your number.”
“I sure as shit don’t know, but you did. And let me tell you, you’re a wild drunk. Very handsy.” Paul shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smile under those wide eyes. I have to look away again. He’s looking hot again. Then he laughs, “You still want me to take you on a date?”
“Excuse me?” I blurt. “Why the hell would I want that?”
It’s not what I want to say after the words come out, but that didn’t stop them from spewing with all the disgust in the pits of Hades.
“Hey,you’rethe one who said,” and he smiles way too big, “and I quote, ‘Would you please ask me on a date? You’re so hot.’ But don’t get your hopes up. I wouldn’t fucking date you anyway.”
“What? Wait. No. There’s no way I said that,” I bite back. “I’m getting out of here.”
“You’re welcome for picking you up,” Paul yells after me as I make for the door. “You want a ride to your place?”
“I’ll walk!”
Paul
Happy Fucking Valentine’s Day
