Page 11 of The Jilted Lovers Club
Jordy
My mouth is like sawdust. I swallow, and it’s like jagged glass in my throat. I pry one eye open, the bright sunlight of the room slicing through me like a scalpel, forcing my eyes shut again. I can barely move my head due to the intense pounding, and it’s tempting to burrow deeper under the covers to hide from the day.
The covers. They aren’t mine. Where the hell am I?
When I open my eyes again, it’s to a nightstand with a folded piece of paper staring back at me, my name in bold letters. Rather, blurry bold letters. My head hurts so bad, everything feels like a wavy line.
I pick the letter up, noting the glass of water and three aspirin next to it. Despite my aching head, I ease myself to sitting, dropping the letter as I take a cautious sip of water. When it stays down, I take another sip, followed by the aspirin, then chase it with more water. So far, so good. My head still hurts, but the water seems to help my vision issue.
I glance at the nightstand again, searching for anything that will clue me in to where I am. There are some crystals strewn across the wood top, a sandalwood and patchouli candle, and a framed photo of a baby wrapped in pink blankets. I pick up the photo, noting the baby’s light spray of red hair. She has to be only a few months old, maybe as old as my niece, June. A pale manicured hand rests on the baby’s swaddled arms, which is the only clue to who held her.
Every baby reminds me of the one I couldn’t have. It was years ago, and I’d never wanted kids in the first place. But somehow, losing her without a choice feels like I’ve been ripped open then put back together wrong. To think about it too hard means I might fall apart, so I distance myself from any kind of baby, almost as if I’m allergic. To the point that I can’t even join my cousin in feeling excited about anything Juniper does.
Yet, I make myself linger on this photo in the privacy of this strange home. Who’s the baby, and who’s the woman holding her? How does it feel to have such a tiny, helpless being look at you with those big grey eyes? How does she smell? What noises does she make? How does her little body fit so perfectly in this woman’s arms?
I take a shuddering breath, placing the photo back on the table face down. That’s when I see the framed photo behind it—afamily of three, one of them the sweet baby from the first photo, I assume from the same pink blanket. Holding her is a beautiful red-haired woman, her face covered in freckles like she’d spent every day of her life in the sun. Her smile is wide, but I can’t help noticing how it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Next to her is Ashton, his hair a lot longer than the close-cut crop he wears now, and the same vacancy in his eyes as the woman beside him. Maybe it’s the fatigue of caring for a newborn that contributes to their forced smiles in this photo—or maybe it’s something else.
So I’m in Ashton’s house, and apparently, he’s a father.
Is this his bed? I look around and don’t see anything masculine in this room. In fact, it’s like an emo teenage girl’s room, with pink walls and black curtains, cartoon skulls and panda art, and a giant poster of Blink 182. It’s pretty wild, like a room the goth girls at school would have had ten years ago. Not my taste, but not bad either. I can’t help thinking of my own room as a teenager, with white walls and white carpet, not a thing out of place, and everything handpicked by our designer. My mom would have had a coronary before allowing me to put thumbtacks in the wall. So while I’m not a Blink 182 fan, I can’t help admiring the liberal taste of whoever’s room this was.
Whose room is this, though? And how did I not know Ashton was a dad? Or that he’s already taken?
Not that it matters. The fact that he has a kid means that any interest I might have had in him is now non-existent. Kids are a deal breaker. I mean, wives or girlfriends are too, but kids? Nope, not happening.
I pull back the covers, noticing for the first time that I’m not wearing my own clothes. Instead, I have on a pair of gym shorts and a green t-shirt with a monstera on it. I hold the shirt out and read it upside down: “I wet my plants.”
Weird. Something Nina would probably wear.
And then it hits me. Oh god, Ashton undressed me. He fucking saw me naked. Wait … did anything happen? Whether he’s taken or not, I can’t guarantee he didn’t pull something while I was unconscious.
Hm … What if? For a moment, I drift to that thought. My thoughts becoming glassy as I consider his hands on my body, pulling my clothes off slowly, smoothing his palms over my skin.
NOPE. Not going there. I refuse to entertain ideas of groping, even welcome ones. I chase the thoughts away as I do a mental assessment of my body, then check everywhere for signs of trauma. I find nothing. Besides the normal ache from a night of too much alcohol, I feel fine. Stupid, but fine. Was I really dumb enough to get drunk in a town where I know no one? What the fuck was I thinking? I have so many questions, and I’ve gotten as far as knowing this is Ashton’s house, he has a kid and a wife or girlfriend, and I am crashing in some teenager’s room.
Wait. The letter.
I search the blankets around me until I find it, slightly crinkled from getting caught in the sheets. Then I read it.
You’re safe.
You had too much to drink last night, and nowhere to go. I took you home so you could sleep it off. We can figure out your next move in the morning, if you stick around.
Here are the things you probably want to know most:
You are in the home of Bob and Bec Felix, owners of Felix Family Farms.
Your phone is charging in the bathroom, which is the closed door directly in front of you to your left.
Your jewelry is also in the bathroom and your clothes are in the washroom. Don’t worry, Bec read the labels.
Bec was the one who dressed you.
You are welcome to wear any of the clothes in the closet.
If you want to leave, no one will be offended or try to stop you. But if you stay, Bec is an amazing cook and can make you any food you want.
— Ashton (the asshole)
