A Story of Now

And that’s exactly how she wakes up. In ruins.

Actually, she wakes to the sound of quiet strumming, a sound that immediately begins to somewhat violently compete with the symphony of ouch, ugh, and what the hell? going off in her own head.

She opens her eyes to daylight, winces, and closes them just as quickly. The world hurts, and that sound coming from outside her skull is not helping one bit. She also has the instinctive feeling that whatever she’s about to see will only cause her to hurt more.

Before she finds a way to make the sound stop, she has far more pressing concerns, like whether or not she’s wearing clothing. This is something quite difficult to ascertain without making any actual, physical movement—particularly given the current state of her brain. But this is a question that must be answered before she greets whatever remnant of last night she is about to face.

It takes a moment of sheer concentration to focus at the surface level of her skin. Then, slowly, she registers the cling of denim at her hips, and the space where her top has ridden up slightly at her lower back, retreating from the hem of her jeans. She wriggles her toes gently. Hell, she’s even wearing socks. Checklist complete.

Yes. She’ll take that as a win.

The light strumming continues, then stops, and then starts again a moment later.

Time to deal. She opens her eyes halfway and mutters into the unfamiliar brown covers. “Tell me I did not spend the night in the bed of someone who plays guitar. Acoustic guitar.”

She hears someone chuckle and then the thrumming thud of the guitar being put down on the floor. “Two chords. That’s all I can play, if it makes you feel any better.”

“Not really.” She remains under the covers. She knows she should look for a way to get the hell out of here, but it’s kind of cosy and way less nauseating to lie very, very still in this strange bed.

“It’s not even my guitar,” the voice continues. “It’s a friend’s. I’m looking after it. His girlfriend was furious at him, and he was scared she’d smash it or something.”

“What’d he do? Play it?”

“Wow, you’re sharp this morning.”

“Are you trying to suggest that last night I was not?” She finally commits to opening her eyes all the way. It has to happen sometime.

He’s sitting on the bed—which is a mattress on a floor—leaning against the wall, a lanky guy wearing a faded green T-shirt, with honey-brown waves of hair that fall below his ears. She can only see him in profile, but he’s kind of familiar. No name floats to the surface of her memory, though. In fact, nothing much at all surfaces.

“Oh no, you told me last night that you were a hippo.” He laughs. “I think you meant an elephant. And you don’t forget a thing, so not to lay a hand on you once you got in my bed because you’d remember.”

“I did?” she mumbles. “Well done, me.” She tries to think of a way to ask for a glass of water without revealing just how hungover she is. She needs to go to the bathroom, too, but that is terrain she’s not sure she can negotiate, not without knowing if there are housemates, or family, or pets. Too difficult. Too dangerous.

All of a sudden, he climbs off the mattress. The movement sets off a wave of nausea through her. “I’ll be back in a sec.” He disappears.

She takes this minute to assess the situation, to double-check. Lifting the cover and her head, she looks down. Wow, she’s not just dressed, she’s, like, impressively fully dressed. Only her jacket and her boots are missing. She gazes around the room. Her jacket is hanging neatly on a chair at the end of the bed, with her boots just beneath. She crawls out of the covers, grabs her jacket, and checks in the pockets for her phone and wallet. Both are present and accounted for. Well done, me. So far so good in coming out of last night intact.

Relieved, she lies down again and allows a second surge of nausea to abate. She may have all her belongings and some of her wits about her, but this is not going to be a fun hangover. No chance.

She lies back down and tries to recollect whatever fragments of last night she can gather from her cloudy brain. Tequila. And dancing. Lots of tequila and dancing. Maybe she found him on the dance floor? Her little game of memory is interrupted by his return. He’s carrying a glass of water, and she prays it’s for her. He sits on the edge of the mattress and passes it to her. Grateful, she takes it.

“Thanks.” She drinks it down quickly and puts the glass on the window sill next to her. The sun is shining outside, easing in around the dark-brown curtains, a fabric that nearly matches the colours of his equally ugly bedspread.

She realises she has absolutely no idea what time it is. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her jacket. It’s just after eleven. And there are already a ton of messages and missed calls.

The latest one is from Robbie.

I think this can be fixed with bacon. We’re going to try, anyway. Come? Ike’s in half an hour?

“So, last night was fun.” Mystery guy yawns and stretches his arms above his head.

“Was it?”

A phone starts ringing in the hallway. Then a dog starts barking. He sighs. “Hang on, I’ll be back.” He leaves the room again.

No hurry, she thinks.

She considers meeting Robbie. The thought of food is slightly off-putting, but it might be nice to commiserate over how awful she feels. She assumes he shared in whatever fun happened last night because dancing with him is one of her few scattered memories. She checks the time of the message. Twenty minutes ago. She could make it. “We” must mean Mia is coming as well.

Mia.

And then she freezes, remembering. The dance floor. The game. The beige armchair. The kiss.

She bites her lip. Oh yeah. How did that happen again?

And, even more pressing a question, how did last night just keep on going after that little episode of randomness? Surely that was enough craziness for one night? She was so drunk, she’s not sure how she went from drunkenly kissing her friend—a girl friend—to ending up in this guy’s bed. The problem is she can’t remember much beyond the time on the armchair. She knows Mia went home because of her own somewhat stunned, drunken reaction to that moment. Claire knows Robbie made her dance again. But just how long did she stay out?

She wonders if Mia remembers the kiss too. That could make a hungover breakfast date kind of awkward. And Claire’s already facing one ghost from last night. Can she really face another right now?

Before she can decide, he comes into the room again, stands by the door, and smiles. He actually seems kind of nice, which is a bonus, she guesses. And she’s sure there was probably some drunken making out if she felt it was okay to use his bed at the end of it.

And he did bring her water. That says something. She remembers one horrendous morning, after one of those unfortunate post-Brendan one-night stands, when the guy didn’t even talk to her. He just grunted from over his controller, fixed on the screen that was positioned, sadly, at the end of his bed. She made a hasty departure back then. This guy and his cheekbones are clearly perched a few steps up the evolutionary ladder.

She wishes she knew his name. Hell, at this point any biographical detail would be good, aside from the fact he doesn’t seem to use a vacuum, and he is overly fond of the various shades of brown. And yeah, those cheekbones.

“You want breakfast?”

She actually kind of does. Well, she wants the coffee that comes with breakfast. But where, and with whom? She quickly assesses the potential levels of awkwardness between each breakfast option and makes her decision. “Uh, no, I actually have to meet my friends.”

Better the potentially uncomfortable devil she knows. That’s what she tells herself as she climbs slowly out of bed and pulls her top down to meet her jeans. “So…where are we?” She acknowledges her lack of memory of last night. She has to get out of here somehow. She quickly scoops up her jacket and her phone.

“Near the corner of Mason and Ascot. You know it?”

“Yep,” she mutters. Good. She’s near the university, at least. And Ike’s. She can make it there in time.

He flops down on his bed again, sits against the wall, and crosses his legs. “What are the chances of you giving me your number?”

“None to…none.” She shrugs on her jacket and pulls up the zip.

“No problem.” He grins at her. “Was just checking. You already gave it to me last night.”

Wow, she must have really liked him last night. She doesn’t say a word. Whoever he is, this guy is too alert for her this morning. Her brain is still at the reboot stage and cannot do this level of nimble right now.

He picks up the guitar again and starts strumming.

That’s her cue to leave. “Uh, well, thanks for half your bed.” This is the best she can muster for manners right now.

“Half might be a stretch. You’re quite the blanket thief.” He plucks at the strings and smiles up at her.

“Stop trying to be charming.” She pulls her hair out from under her jacket collar. She can’t help giving him a small smile, though, as she shakes her head. “Nothing is going to work this morning.”

“Okay then,” he says, casual. “Well, see you later, Claire.”

Damn. She also told him her real name. Oops.

“See you.” She makes for the door, hits the pavements, and leaves the small, white worker’s terrace behind. Taking a deep breath, she heads for what she hopes is Ascot Street. She walks as quickly as her tender head allows and pulls out her phone. There is a little bit of battery left. Enough to see that there are also two missed calls from Robbie. And three messages that came in before the invitation to breakfast.

The first, sometime in the early hours of this morning.

Where did u go? Don’t u know you shld never, ever leave me it a party along. I do stupid tings.

She smiles. Like forget how to type? Well, doesn’t he know he should never let her leave a party with random, floppy-haired strangers?

The next came in two hours ago.

So, I want to die. How r u? I have, I can announce, finally located the right adjective for this hangover.

And then, ten minutes later.

Okay, u didn’t ask, but I’m going to tell u. Adj: diabolical.

She smiles and then immediately frowns. Should she go to breakfast? Now, out in the harsh reality of daylight and her monstrous—she opts for monstrous—hangover, she’s second-guessing her decision to meet them. Mostly because she has no idea where to put that random kiss with Mia in the scheme of her night—let alone her life.

But then maybe she doesn’t need to, not if Mia isn’t weird about it. Maybe they can just put it down to a drunken party thing. Claire makes these types of hot-mess decisions when she’s drunk. She just has no idea how Mia will be about it. Mia doesn’t strike her as someone who does stupid trashy things that often. Then, she did make a comment about random inappropriate make outs, so maybe she is. Maybe Mia has some debauched potential Claire hasn’t discovered yet?

She might as well go to breakfast. It’s better than going home and facing her parents and however they’d like her to spend her day. She walks to the nearest street corner, gets her bearings, and heads for the café.