Page 29 of When Stars Collide
Despite my best efforts to win the battle against sleep, exhaustion and the alcohol inevitably won the war, and it wasn’t long before I shut my eyes for the rest of the night.
Sunlight crawled through the blinds and made its way to my face the next morning, waking me. At first, I had forgotten where I was, but then I gradually regained my bearings and started to remember that I had stayed at Peter and Luke’s. A stirring from down the hall told me that Peter was awake, too. With a yawn, I extracted myself from Luke’s bed and ambled down the hall in the direction of the noise Peter was making.
“Good morning,” he greeted me. “What’s left of it, anyway.”
“No matter how many times it’s said to me, I will never acknowledge a morning as being good in any way.”
“Heh, I could drink to that.” He held up a mug of what I could only assume was coffee. “Bet you couldn’t, though.”
“Actually, I probably could if I really wanted to. My liver has been thoroughly conditioned since I turned twenty-one—and maybe somewhat before then.”
“Want any breakfast? I have cereal … and cereal.”
“Hmm, so many choices. I’ll take the cereal.”
“Excellent choice.” He pulled a bag out of the cabinet and tossed it on the counter while he rummaged through another cabinet for a bowl.
“What, you couldn’t splurge on the name brand stuff?”
“I could, but then I may have to cut back on things like Cheetos, and I’m not prepared for that level of sacrifice just yet. Besides, I personally feel the generic brand cereals taste better.”
“Given the décor in this place, I don’t think it needs to be said that your sense of taste of any kind is seriously compromised.”
“Just eat your degerminated yellow corn flour, soluble corn fiber, and hydrogenated vegetable oil and get out of my apartment.” Smiling, he set a bowl he’d filled with colorful Os’ down on the counter in front of me with a gallon of milk.
“Is that any way to treat a guest?”
“When she’s being insufferable, it is.”
I flipped him off as I poured milk into the bowl, watching him load dirty dishes from the sink into the dishwasher. While he worked, bits and pieces from the night before flashed through my head: his touch, our kiss, the way he looked at me. And, especially, what he’d said to me.
‘…if you remember any of this tomorrow morning, and you can honestly look me in the eye and tell me that you still feel the same way, then you’ll have me in whatever way you want me…’
He’d given me an out. Taking my state of inebriation into account, he’d figured that was the only reason why I was into him, and so he put the ball in my court. He wanted to know that any decision that was made to sleep together was made by me to avoid the awkwardness. Peter Monroe was one of the rare good ones I’d encountered since moving to Virginia.
“I remember everything.”
He paused, silverware resting between his fingers. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something further and that’s why he didn’t bother to turn around or even acknowledge my statement with anything more than a sudden lull in activity. Either way, he recommenced loading the dishwasher without saying a word.
Did I misjudge him and the situation? Had I actually heard him say what I thought I’d heard him say? Or was it more me wanting to hear what I thought I’d heard? There was one way to find out. I finished my bowl of soggy Os’ and moved to stand next to him near the dishwasher.
“I’m completely one hundred … well, eighty-five percent sober, and nothing has changed the way I feel since last night.”
With a sudden exhale, he dropped the bowl he’d been holding in his hand in the sink and steadied himself on the counter, resting one hand on each side of the basin.
“Unless of course you’ve changed your mind about me.”
He shook his head, finally turning to look at me, his eyes filled with the same longing I saw in them the night before. “Mena.” He said my name like doing so allowed him to finally breathe again.
“Peter,” I whispered.
I wasn’t certain which one of us moved first, and it really didn’t matter, but seconds later, my back had been pressed against the kitchen wall and Peter’s lips were on mine.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his forehead resting on my own.
“Aren’t you?”
“More than anything.” He brushed a stray hair away from my face. “It’s just—a girl like you and a guy like me, it doesn’t happen.”
