My eyes snap open and instinctively, I reach for my phone. Through the grogginess, and a pounding headache, it takes a while for my eyes to adjust. On my screen is a long list of missed notifications: 18 text messages, 14 missed calls, and 5 voicemails. Most are from my husband, but a few are from Ashley. I’m going to have to talk to my husband eventually, and I’ll probably return Ashley’s calls first, but there’s one voicemail from my sister that will be left alone, unanswered, deleted, and pretended as if it never existed.

Harsh morning light peaks through motel curtains, blinding me when I roll over. I throw my hand over my eyes to block the sun, and see Kemper asleep in the chair, wearing a plain white tee and an innocent, resting face.

He stirs when I set up in bed as if he’s the lightest sleeper in the world. Feeling congested, I let out a cough and he springs to life.

“Good morning, Princess,” he groans as he throws his arms over his head, stretching away the exhaustion of sleeping in a chair meant for sitting. “How do you feel?”

“Hungover, and before you read my mind and finish my sentence, I’m well aware I didn’t have a drink last night.”

“Do you have alcohol problems?”

“What?” I scoff and throw white sheets off my body. “That’s one of those things that’s none of your business.” The truth, of course, is that I don’t have a problem. The beer I threw at my husband’s truck last weekend would have been the first in what seems like forever. “It runs in the blood.”

“I’m sorry to hear.”

“Mom and dad, at different points in their lives, drank themselves to the brink.”

“And your husband?”

“Why are you so inquisitive?”

“I told you.” He lets out an obnoxious yawn, shifting in the chair to accommodate the commotion he’s making with his stretched arms. “I want to know everything about you.”

“You know that’s creepy right?”

“It is what it is.” He twirls his finger at me and kicks his feet over the side of the chair, so that his body is slumped in the ravine of the seat. “Continue.”

“I was in an accident.” I raise my thumb to my mouth and chew on the nail. “He was drinking before I got in his car.”

“I’ve heard stories.”

“You’ve heard lies,” I snap at him, anger vibrating in my tone.

“Enlighten me to the truth?”

I sigh and bow my head. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s why you wanted to kill yourself last night?”

“It’s a part of me, forever and always.”

“You feel guilt?”

I jump to my feet, landing against shaggy carpet. “I need to change out of these clothes,” I say, my sentence finishing the exact moment my eyes spot a fresh pile of clothes lying on the dresser. “Are those—?”

“Yours?” He averts his eyes away from me, his eyes purged with guilt. “I snuck into your house last night after you fell asleep.”

I stare him down for what seems like an hour, but amounts to nothing more than a few seconds. “You are seriously crossing lines—“

“I was petrified that he was going to wake up,” he points out as if there’s nothing inherently wrong with what he’s done.

“Please stop interrupting me,” I scold him.

“It’s a two way street, Teach.”

“Teach?” My brow furrows. “Is that the sexy nickname you’ve chosen for me?”

“Can you get dressed?”

“Why the rush?”

“I don’t know.“ He shoves his hands into his jeans, the same jeans he’s been wearing since yesterday. “It’ll be good for us to go out and get some air.”

“We?” I chuckle at the ridiculous concept. “I can’t be seen in public with you.”

“Is that the way you show gratitude for the guy who saved your life?” He rises to his feet and shakes his head in disbelief. “Not that I’m expecting compensation in any form.”

“Thank you, for everything,” I say softly, because he’s right. I owe him the world.

“Thank me by getting ready.”

“So much for no compensation.”

“Where we’re going, nobody is going to see us.” He plops down on the bed and removes his shoes. “And if they do, they certainly won’t recognize us.”

“Fine,” I huff and swipe the stack of clothes off the dresser.

Shower water rains upon my face, storm clouds of steam rising from the basin of the shower tub. I run my fingers through my hair, pushing it all backward as shampoo is rinsed from my locks.

When I’m clean, my body sanitary and my mind clearer than it’s been since this ordeal began a little under twenty-four hours ago, I turn the knob of the shower. Steam billows around my body as I gather my hair behind my head and squeeze the water out.

I towel myself off and reach to clean the mirror from the steam, but decide against a clean slate. The last thing I want or need right now is to be hounded by my own reflection. I don’t bother applying makeup or fixing my hair. Instead, I opt for simple and quick, with nothing more than a hair tie to bound my hair behind my head in a ponytail.

I exit the bathroom, and the first thing I see is Kemper leaning against the motel door, spinning a key around his finger. He’s changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a blue plaid button down. He eyes me up and down and nods his head in a satisfactory manner.

“I like the clean look.” He smiles a perfect smile and steps toward me. “You look stunning.”

“You’re an idiot,” I scowl. “I’m not even wearing any makeup.”

“You don’t need it.”

“Please don’t stand here and try to tell me what I do or don’t need.”

“No.” His brow arches. “Nothing like that. Wear it or don’t. You’re beautiful either way.”

“Do you think you can compliment your way into my pants?”

“Should I try?” He chuckles to himself as he reaches for a pair of shades and glides them over my eyes. “Nobody is going to recognize you now.”

“I’m warning you,” I say as I pass him and reach for the doorknob, “if anyone spots us, I’m going to scream that I’ve been kidnapped.”

“Oh…” he coos and wags a finger at me. “So, that’s what turns you on?”