There have been occasions where I’ve had every muscle in my body burning all at once. It was after a game with our crosstown rivals—we took home the W and I took home one hell of a game hangover—but this fire burning throughout my body feels ten times more agonizing than anything I’ve experienced before. My lids struggle to open as I tip my head back. My legs glide over cool sheets. I don’t have cool sheets. I have flannel. Not my bed. The hint of vanilla perfume lingers in the air, and my eyes spring open. I turn around so quickly I’m practically spinning over the mattress, but the room is empty, the door slightly ajar, and I’m not anywhere near my apartment.

“Shit.” I sit up on my elbows and glance down at my naked body, my morning salute going strong as if it were up for another round. Whoever that girl was last night—that pirate smile, those citrine-colored eyes, that throaty laugh that she kept pumping into my mouth—it all comes back to me. And then it hits me—Sunday.

I slept with Sunday? It was Sunday I was kissing in the hall, wasn’t it? Those mouthwatering kisses send a spear of lust rocketing through me as I struggle to hold onto what I’m hoping is a recollection of something real. I rack my brain to see if I could get anything that happened once we crested that door to register and nothing. Crap. It was Sunday, wasn’t it?

Sunday Knight. I fall back against the foreign bed and close my eyes a moment as my head does its best impression of a jackhammer. Sunday. Did I sleep with Sunday? My heart begins to do its best to stomp out of my chest.

Sunday Knight has been the only girl my eyes could see from the moment we met all those delusional years ago. She’s the one girl I can’t and shouldn’t have. What the hell was I thinking?

Then it all plays back like snips that were hacked from a movie reel, cut to the editing room floor. Sunday’s sleepy face, that lazy grin—me stripping her sweater off, the struggle to get her jeans down. Shit.

I wipe down my face with a growl before getting the hell up, jumping into my jeans, my shoes, grabbing my shirt off the floor, and heading back to my apartment.

I let a little booze get in the way of my good senses—okay, I let a hell of a lot of booze get in the way of my good thinking, her better judgment, and the fact we will never be able to face one another at the Thanksgiving table for years to come.

Forget any holiday that’s still a year off. I won’t be able to face Sunday the next time I see her. And judging by the fact she took off as soon as she came to—Sunday doesn’t want to see me either.

* * *

As soon as I get back to my apartment, I throw myself in the shower, soap up, and let the hot water do its thing. All the while last night comes back to me hard and fast in pornographic snippets, her body pressed against mine, her lips running up and down my chest like it was a race track. Her mouth finding far more interesting parts of my body to run across over and over. Sunday underneath me, my face getting buried in that golden hair, the scent of warm cinnamon and vanilla. Sunday tasted like a honeyed dream. Hell, I wish it were one. But it wasn’t. I can still feel her tight body wrapped around me as I plunged in as if my life depended on it. I was with her, in her, and that alone is a heart-stopping detail. Sunday may not ever speak to me again, but it’s safe to say I’ve catapulted us past the awkward stage our relationship has been lingering in for years. I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t file assault charges—not that I did anything she didn’t seem to want. As far as I remember, she was more than willing. I hop out, dry off, and fall into my own bed, passing out until the very next morning.

Late Sunday—Sunday—the irony doesn’t escape me. I force myself to get dressed, throw on a jacket, and head back out into the bitter cold. She hasn’t texted, and neither have I. There are a lot of reasons I feel like an ass over what’s happened, and that happens to be at the top of the list. I thought about saying I’m sorry—letting her know I was wasted, we were wasted—that it will never happen again. And even though the first part of that is true, deep down, the greedy pervert who lives inside of me doesn’t want that last part to be true at all.

I have dreamed, fantasized about being with Sunday for the last six years straight at least, and to think that it finally came to pass and I don’t remember a damn thing. A glimpse here and there is as much as I could make of it, the feel of her soft body—that I remember. But everything feels like a blur. Hell, my nightly perverse wanderings that star the two of us feel more real than what happened in that bedroom.

Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the Black Bear Saloon with its signature giant stuffed bear at the entry wearing a Santa hat and scarf. It’s the last weekend after finals and already the area is starting to look like a ghost town. I head on in and the scent of beer on tap and deep-fried everything fills my nostrils. Whatever they’re serving, I’ll have six. God knows I haven’t had a decent meal in days—not unless you count Sunday, and for the life of me I can’t properly remember that one.

It’s dim inside, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Cheery Christmas carols pump through the speakers, and the place is sparsely populated. In the evenings, they usually have a house band blowing the place out and it’s wall-to-wall bodies, but you could say winter break robbed the place of its customers. The Black Bear might be situated across from WB, but there are about three other universities whose student population treks out this way. This evening the tables are half-empty. You can actually make out the layout of the establishment at a glance, and I spot my favorite bartender-slash-owner, Holt, across the counter and give a brief nod.

“Baker,” a deep voice shouts from the rear. I find Grant, Lawson, and Eli—three knuckleheads from the basketball team—and I head on over.

“What’s up?” I fall into the seat next to Grant, and my head still feels as if a giant finished stomping on it. Two days. I’ve never had a hangover last so long. On second thought, I should have texted Sunday by now just to make sure she’s still alive.

Lawson winces at me from across the table. “Dude, you look like shit.”

“And that would be exactly how I feel.” I steal a fry from the basket sitting in the middle of the table. Each of them has an empty plate in front of them, and the fry I just popped into my mouth is ice-cold and stale. “Looks like I missed the dinner invite.”

Eli grunts, “I texted you twice. I was about to head over and see if there was a stench coming from your apartment. What happened to you, man? Last I saw, you were knocking back beers with Rush’s sister. You sure like playing Russian roulette. I’d stay away from her if I were you.”

He takes a swig of his soda, and for the first time I look at Eli and feel a smidge of disdain for the guy. Don’t get me wrong—Eli’s a cool dude. Nice in every single way. He’s a womanizer, but that’s not my problem and I haven’t heard anyone complain. But something about the way he suggested I stay away from Sunday doesn’t sit well with me.

“I guess I will,” I say without any feeling behind it.

Grant stumps his fist into my shoulder. “Get it together. We’ve got one more game before we take off. Speaking of taking off—you hanging at Briggs through the new year?”

“Yup. My sister’s getting hitched New Year’s Eve.” I look over to Eli. “Without me around, you’ll have your pick of all the girls.” I can’t help but give a shit-eating grin. Lawson and Grant are both taken, but Eli’s been trying to eat my lunch as far as the girls go. We’ve made a game of it, but ever since Sunday set foot on campus I stopped playing. Like I said, Sunday has been the only girl I can see. It feels like a cardinal sin to even try to oust her from the throne I placed her on long ago.

“Coming at us at six o’clock.” Eli ticks his head to the door, his eyes dropping to the table as if he were trying to play it off.

A cool breeze scented with everything sweet you’d ever want to eat hits me, and I look up in time to see Sunday Knight standing before us, her hair floating behind her in caramel waves, loose hairs straying to the ceiling, her eyes flashing with concern, red around the rims, her appearance altogether a little worn, but nevertheless she’s stunning.

My next breath gets caught in my throat, and I can’t seem to formulate a single word.

Eli kicks me hard from under the table. “I’m headed to the poolroom. Go ahead and grab dinner before heading back.”

Grant and Lawson excuse themselves, and Sunday drops into one of the seats across from me with her mouth open wide.

“Wow.” Her eyes enlarge, lemon yellow with a whisper of lime. “So that just happened.” Her cheeks pique with color.

Serena comes by and picks up the dishes. “Eli Gates just dropped a hundred to pick up their tab and yours. He said I could keep the rest!” She bounces on her feet, and her red hair springs like flames. Serena is Sunday’s cousin, and I’ve known her as long as I’ve known Sunday, but we’re not as close. And seeing that Sunday and I aren’t close at all by Western standards, it’s saying a lot. “Eat cheap, would you.” She shoots me a look.

“Cheeseburger, fries, a peanut butter shake.” I nod to Sunday.

“Ugh.” She threads her fingers through the hair at her temples. Sunday’s hair has always looked illuminated from the inside, like some otherworldly artifact, fairy floss, something not found in nature but wholly beautiful like Sunday herself. And here I can hardly bring myself to look her in the eye.

What did she mean by so that just happened? It’s such a glib way to describe what happened between us I don’t even know how to respond to it. But I will. I’m determined to put it behind us. The last thing I want is for there to be any weirdness between Sunday and me. A part of me wants to laugh. There will be weirdness for decades to come. You don’t sleep with someone who is about to be family and not have repercussions. Especially if you’re me. I’ve never gotten away scot-free with anything in my life.

Sunday takes a breath. “I’ll have the same.” She makes a queasy face at Serena. “Why do you think Eli is buying my dinner?” She tugs on her bottom lip with those milky white teeth, and suddenly I’m hungry to take a bite of something else entirely.

Serena bucks with a silent laugh. “Because he wants to buy my dinner, of course. He’s been after me for weeks.” She glances at her red glittery nails as if getting Eli’s attention was a hard-won trophy. And he seems to be for a lot of girls.

“Oh, right.” Sunday sags as Serena takes off to make all our burger dreams come true. “I guess it was just a one-off to him then.” She pumps her shoulders. “It was stupid of me to think it was anything else.”

I glance in the direction of the kitchen, not getting where she’s going with this. And just like that, I decide to tear off the bandage that’s crusted over the wound I inflicted.

“I want you to know that I take full responsibility.”

She shakes her head, her eyes squinted at me as if I were skidding out of focus. “What?”

An abrasive breeze stops abruptly at our table, and we find ourselves staring up at Lucky Madden, Lawson’s plus one. Her brother owns a tattoo parlor in Jepson that’s been on my hit list for a while now.

“No way!” she says with marked enthusiasm to Sunday before holding up a hand, and Sunday reluctantly slaps her five. “Ava just added up the total, and your little FU to Prescott just put Cutler in the lead by two hundred fifty thousand dollars!”

“Oh my God!” Sunday’s face lights up. “That’s incredible. I had no idea we were raising that kind of money.”

“We didn’t raise that much money.” Lucky giggles under her breath. “You did. A measly thirty grand was all Cutler came up with on its own, and once you utilized your superstar powers that’s when the mega bucks came rolling in.” She says the words rolling in with air quotes. I don’t know what they’re talking about, but it’s a hell of a lot of money, so in that sense I’m pretty damn impressed. “Just write a check directly to the shelter. Of course, it’s tax deductible, but I’m sure someone as financially savvy as you has already figured that out. Prescott raised forty-three grand, so we would have been dead in the water without you. Every person in Cutler is hailing you as a hero. I’m proud to call you one of my own, girl.” She lifts a hand before disappearing to the back where the poolroom sits. Lucky and Lawson are never far apart for long.

“Congratulations,” I say as Serena drops off the food and shakes before darting in the direction of the poolroom herself.

But Sunday doesn’t look too pleased with herself. In fact, her face has gone white and she’s pushing her plate my way.

“That means I have to come up with over two hundred thousand dollars by Christmas. How in the hell am I supposed to do that?” Her eyes spring wide, pinning themselves to mine, and it’s downright hypnotic. A visual of that night comes back to me, the exact moment my body dove into hers, her eyes sprang wide, and she looked right at me much in the way she’s doing right now. It’s the only moment I can recall with any lucidity, and I wonder if she remembers it, too.

“Easy”—I say—“you take from the people you raised it. How’d you plan on getting the funds?” I take a quick swig of my shake and moan. Peanut butter and chocolate. It’s damn good, second only to Sunday—I’m guessing and I’m pretty sure I’m right.

“I didn’t.” She searches the table as if looking for clues. “I told my viewers I’d donate a quarter for every view. It’s not possible I got that many views. I never get views when I’m not doing a demonstration or unpacking a giant box of goodies sent by retailers or cosmetic companies. Trust me, outside of my makeup bag, nobody cares about anything I have to say.” She plucks out her phone and begins scrolling like mad before jumping in her seat with a jolt. “Oh my God. A few of my vlogger friends shared it and it went viral!” She holds the phone out for me to see it.

“Eight hundred eighty thousand views.” I shake my head. Shit. “Go back there and tell her you got in over your head. Everyone will understand, I promise. It’s not like you’ve got real donations pouring in that you’re hoarding. I’ll go with you.”

“Ha. And face Eli? No way. It’s bad enough I’ll have Cutler Tower up in arms. Not to mention the gloating this will entitle Prescott Hall to. I’ll go down in history of the dormitories as that one student who tarnished Cutler’s good name forever. God.” She exhales, exasperated, and I can’t help but note her chest pulses with the action. I can’t believe I had her body, the girls in my mouth, and I cannot for the life of me recall it properly. Or at least I hope I had them in my mouth. If not, it was an opportunity missed that I should never forgive myself for. Sunday’s body has been worshipped from afar by both my alert state and subconscious for as long as I’ve known her.

I blink as if doing a double take. “What do you mean face Eli?”

Her pretty pink mouth opens and closes as she leans in with a newfound fire in her eyes. “We got wasted Friday night, remember? I had my sights set on Eli for whatever reason and—well”—she closes her eyes a moment, and I can see the regret etching itself over her features without missing a guilt-riddled beat—“at first I thought it was you, but then I saw his flannel on the floor.” Her watery eyes meet with mine. “I gifted Eli Gates my virginity like it was—” She snaps her fingers. “What’s Eli’s favorite food?”

“Sushi.” All hints of a smile have roughly dissipated, and I’m momentarily pissed she thinks she slept with Eli. And her virginity? What the hell was she thinking? She wasn’t thinking. And neither was I. That stupid beer pong game had eaten all our brain cells.

“Sushi”—she makes a face. “I set my virginity on a platter like a roll of Negi Hamachi and handed it over to him.”

“Negi Hamachi.” An awkward bout of silence clots up between us as we try to digest the unappetizing metaphor.

“Anyway.” She bounces back before ejecting herself from her seat. “I have to get out of here. I need to come up with a way to give the shelter the money I promised them, and before you even think it—there’s no way I’m groveling to my father. I don’t care if he is showing up for the wedding. I swore I’d never grovel to him for cash.” She starts to take off, and I grab ahold of her by the elbow.

“Hey.” I try to soothe her with my tone. “Don’t worry about the money. I’ll help you think of something, I promise.” I glance to the poolroom with a hard stare. This is it—do or die. If I let her believe that Eli is the one she slept with, then he gets to be the bad guy. And if I tell her it was me, then we’ll never get back to where we were, and I don’t think I could live with that. Sunday might forgive Eli, but would she ever forgive me? I don’t know if I can risk finding out the answer. It probably doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not as if Sunday and I could have ever evolved past the friend zone. At least she’s never been willing to. “And don’t let that thing with Eli bother you too much. I’m sorry, though.” I look right into her amber eyes and pour my soul out. “I’m really sorry about everything that happened that night.” And that right there is gospel.

She swallows hard, her gaze falling to the floor. “I am, too.” Sunday tightens her coat around her and heads out of the bar as if she was running from an entire pack of rabid bears, afraid of being devoured. Little does she know she was already devoured by a rabid bear in sheep’s clothing—me.

And as much as I want to hate myself for it, a tiny part of me wishes I could relive the effort.

That will never happen. When pigs fly as my mother likes to say.

I glance back at the oversized Christmas tree sitting in the corner, and my eye snags on a tiny pink ornament, a pig with wings—and I wonder.