Page 51 of 28 Dates

She stops me, throwing her hand to her mouth, and her eyes go wide. “Oh shit,” she groans. She takes off running, and by the hunch of her shoulders, her hand over her mouth, I know exactly what’s about to happen.

I reach the bathroom right before she slams the door shut, drops to her knees, and empties the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

Chapter 18

Caitlin

My head. My high school’s old drum line has taken up residence inside my skull, pounding their mallets on the largest bass drum known to man. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds to roll over, the memories of last night pounding against my brain to the incessant thumping of my headache.

Hot damn.

I kissed Jonas. Then promptly threw up after he rejected me. Yet he didn’t leave, he stayed. I couldn’t even summon the mortification I should have felt when he grabbed a clip from my bathroom counter and held back my hair with it, or when he wet a washcloth and gave it to me when I was done, still crouched over the toilet. He’d lifted me in his arms and so easily and carefully carried me to my room. He made his way around my space with the ease of a man who had spent so many nights there, digging through my drawers to find a T-shirt.

But God. Mortification had set in then, even with me being barely awake. I struggled to sit and managed to push myself up, plopping my head against my headboard. His face showed surprise as he held up a shirt.

“You still wear this?”

I blink slowly. He was never supposed to know I kept it all this time. He was never supposed to know I stole it at all. I shrug, the energy it takes for that simple motion wearing me out. “It’s comfortable.”

He steps toward me, shirt fisted in his hand until he reaches the bed. “It was my favorite. I thought someone stole it from the laundry room. And you’ve had it? All this time?”

I wither beneath his perusal. He’s so serious. He’s supposed to leave. He’s the one who just rejected me not more than fifteen minutes ago. The gray shirt he has in his hand is from his senior year of high school. Twelve years old, the faded screen print letters of Connecticut University barely visible. What was once a deep pink is now muted, dirty. He bought it before he decided not to go to college. “It’s just a shirt, Jonas.”

His expression turns soft. A gleam in his eye I don’t have the energy, or sobriety, to decipher. “Sure it is, Caty. Just a shirt is all.”

I close my eyes as he reaches out. With efficient movements, he pulls me to the edge of the bed. “Let me get you dressed in this and then I’ll let you rest.”

My hands fall to his shoulders, and I lean in to him, my head lolls forward. So sleepy. Oh my goodness. Martinis are the devil in disguise.

He lifts my limp limbs, divesting me of my shirt and bra, and I realize he has no reaction to seeing my body. It’s a boon, really. It’d be creepy if he was getting turned on and enjoying himself right now, but the Jonas I’ve been with still would have paused. Shot me a teasing look and encouraged me in some way. This Jonas is quick and efficient, hurried in his movements as if he can’t wait to leave.

“Will you stay?” I mumble, once he’s slid this shirt over my head and tugged my arms through the sleeves.

His lips press to the top of my head. “Until I know you’re asleep, but I can’t stay with you, Caitlin.”

Of course he can’t. Sleeping in the same bed with a woman you’ve spent years sleeping next to and curled into isn’t on his list of things to repeat anymore.

Humiliation stings as I turn and climb into the bed. I tug the covers over me and roll, putting my back to him. This whole stupid thing started tonight because I was stood up. It makes total sense why Jonas doesn’t want things to go back to how they were.

Trey’s stupid app. There’s nothing wrong with the app. It’s working fine. Perhaps it’s just me who doesn’t work right.

“You can go,” I mumble, pulling the covers up to my shoulders and closing my eyes. “I’ll be fine now. Thanks for walking me home.”

“Caitlin—” he starts, and stops after my name.

I close my eyes and pray to pass out quickly. Seconds would be fantastic. I hear him moving. He heads into my attached bathroom and runs the water. Flushes the toilet. The water runs again, and by the time the bathroom door opens, the light from the room casting a glow over my bed, I pretend to be fast asleep.

I’ve been stood up, gotten drunk, kissed and almost puked on the only guy I can see myself being brave enough to hand my heart to, except it’s six months too late and he no longer wants it.

I’m the largest mess in Portland. Perhaps Oregon. West Coast minus Malibu. Those rich people are off-the-charts crazy.

“Good night, honey,” he says.

His hand squeezes my arm, and I’m plunged into darkness and silence as I finally pass out.

“Awesome, awesome,” I groan and throw off the covers. Next to me, the pillow is fluffed and clean. I have no idea where Jonas went, but he obviously didn’t stay.

Moving from the bed feels like I’m trudging through waist-deep mud. My movements are slow, my bones ache. Freaking hangovers and martinis. I still can’t believe I drank so much. Maybe I didn’t eat enough. I’d felt fine until I absolutely knew I wasn’t going to be. Leave it to me to go from tipsy to white-girl-wasted in the blink of an eye.

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