The Next Morning (2)
I woke up looking straight into the sun's glare. I yawned and cuddled back up into the sheets.
Wait. Where am I? Why am I not in my clothes from last night? "Oh my GOD!" I gasped and pulled the blankets higher to cover myself. Frightened, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, began to look around me at the room, my breathing slowing down as my eyes focused around me, and recognized it—it was his old apartment. A sigh of relief escaped my lips. I looked down and saw I was clothed in a simple, long, white t-shirt. I quietly got out of bed and turned around to make the bed back up when I heard someone enter the room.
I whipped around, barely catching my balance before one knee hit the ground, ready to pounce on the intruder. I looked down at the feet of the intruder, eyes traveling up his body, beginning to recognize the general shape when my eyes were swept down again as a tray crashed to the floor.
"I'm so sorry!" I exclaimed, "I thought it was someone else, I saw where I was and what I was wearing and…" I stopped suddenly, my tone changing from apologetic to rising anger. "Where exactly are my clothes? When did we come here? What time is it?" questions began spewing from my mouth faster and faster, and suddenly he laughed.
"Relax," he said, laughter pouring from his lips, curved into a smile that could make my knees melt like fire put to wax. "Easy for you to say!" I almost shouted, "You're not the one who has no idea what happened in the past few hours and how she got into the clothes she's in now!" He took a step closer to me, barely missing the glass that had broken when the tray fell on the floor and took me into his arms, hugging me.
His expression changed from amusement to gentle understanding as he cooed quietly into my ear, "Relax, its ok. Don't take so much tension, it's only me." I hugged him back, tears running down my face and stinging my eyes.
It all came back to me: last night, telling him, his reaction—everything.
"Did anything...happen last night?" I said haltingly.
He shook his head, a confused expression clouding his face.
"Do you even remember what happened last night?" I asked carefully.
"Hmmm… No not really, why?" he asked, confused.
"I don't either!" I said laughing, hopefully convincingly, although I was nervous. "What was the last thing you remember?" trying not to sound too interested.
"Until a few drinks, after that…. Damn. I shouldn't have drunk so much!" He said smiling. Shaking his head, "I kind of wanted to know how the night ended."
"Aw! Don't worry! It's ok!" I hugged him tight, "I'm sure it was fine, we both got home okay, right?" I said with a smile.
"Yeah that's true. Kind of strange that we went home together…." He stopped, rethinking what he had said earlier, "You don't think anything…?" His voice trailed off. I could sense worry in it but at the same time, I could have sworn I heard an eager edge to it, hoping that something did.
I laughed, and shook my head, "Yeah right! You're getting married, and I'm just a friend. And besides, why would I ever do something to come between you and your fiancée, my best friend's future wife?" My smile fell ever so slightly and the color drained out of my face. He noticed it.
"What's wrong? Are you ok? Can I get you something?" He stepped forward, his foot making contact with a small piece of glass. He ignored the pain in his foot as he held on to me and towards the bed to sit down on. I took a deep breath, not being able to fully comprehend what had happened. I remembered last night—the full impact of what I had said last night mixing with the nausea caused by the withdrawal of the alcohol from those drinks.
After I had assured him I was fine, taking a few deep breaths, I realized he was bleeding. I coaxed him to let me look at his foot, telling him that I was ok and that I wanted to make sure he was, too. I looked at the deep cut and told him not to move. I gently set his foot down on the bed and ran to the bathroom to get a towel from next to the sink, wetting it ever so slightly with water and finding the bandages and antiseptic in the medicine cabinet. I took care of him, bandaged his foot, made sure he wouldn't get up, and began to clean up the mess I had caused which was littering the floor—tea, fruits, and glass were strewn from the spot where the tray had dropped within a five foot radius. Despite his repeated discouragement and warnings to be careful and that I would hurt myself, I managed to clean it up, only getting a few cuts on my fingers. I walked carefully towards the bed, hoping I hadn't missed anything and began to fix my own wounds, when he grabbed my elbow as anger darkened his face.
"This is the perfect example of how you don't take care of yourself!" He bellowed. I smiled at that and gave my usual, pert reply—"Why don't you try and take better care of me, for me?"
"Maybe I will," he said, his voice seemingly softening ever so slightly with only a hint of an edge to it, betraying more his worry about me rather than anger. Maybe he does still care. Maybe I still have a chance.
After not receiving an answer last night, all I could do was to hope.