Caleb

THE LIGHTING’S DIM. THE music’s loud. The air’s thick with humidity. All around me, people are moving to the rhythmic sound surrounding us. My body buzzes with energy—charged by the crowd, lit up by the excitement—I’ve plugged into this place.

I’ve plugged into life.

That feeling’s grown steadily, turning my short Montreal vacation into a life altering adventure. It’s been less than two weeks, but each day here’s felt fresh and new. Each day I’ve felt fresh and new, leaving the baggage of illness behind.

Tonight, the adventure’s brought me to an underground bar. When my cousin first suggested it, I’d thought she meant it was illegal. Turns out, it’s literally underground.

Right in the heart of downtown Montreal is an underground city. It’s mainly shopping and restaurants. Places for the weekday warriors to have their breaks. But set back in a corner is a place you’d never expect—a nightclub that doubles as a lounge. When the other shops close for the day, the club opens its doors and loud dance music pours out.

Like children following the Pied Piper, we chased the sounds of reverberating electronica. We danced through the corridors until being absorbed by this party.

“What the fuck?” Chante yells.

A second ago, we were joking about the sticky floor. Arguing over whether it was inhibiting or enhancing our dance moves. I have no idea what’s prompted my cousin’s outburst.

“What’s going on?”

“Just stay here a minute, okay? I’ve got to take care of something.”

Staying put isn’t a choice. We’re in the middle of the dance floor and I can barely lift my beer to my lips without being jostled by the person next to me. But Chante moves easily through the crowd—quickly swallowed by the masses.

I’m alone, immersed in a mob, and I love it.

I love the gritty atmosphere and drunken depravity. I love the heavy bass vibrating through me. I love that in a room full of hundreds, not one of them gives a shit about me or my problems. It’s terrific. Just one more example of how vibrant this city is.

I wish every day could start and end with this feeling.

Chante suddenly reappears, looking more pissed off than usual.

“Everything okay?”

“No! I need you to do me a giant favor—and you can’t say no, or I won’t let you stay at my place free next time. So, be a good cousin and do exactly what I say.”

“You ask so nicely, how can I refuse?”

“Cut the bullshit, Caleb,” she orders, convincing me her threat’s not idle. “My best friend’s here on her own, and she’s shit-faced. She shouldn’t be alone.”

“Okay. Should we take her home?”

“Yes, you should.”

“Me? What about you?”

“Remember when I said I was on call tonight? Well, perfect fucking timing, I just got called in. I’ve got to go to work.”

Without waiting for agreement, she grabs my hand, pulling me along behind her. The beer in my other hand spills with each elbow and shoulder I bump.

As we approach the bar and the woman I’ll be babysitting, I silently curse fate for spoiling my buzz.

Until I see her.

Motionless, head in hand, she stares absently at an empty glass. Her somber profile’s a stark contradiction to the liveliness around her. She’s a beautiful beacon of distress, and as we get closer, I notice mine aren’t the only eyes hooked by her. Almost every man in viewing distance has her set in his sights.

“Zadie!” Chante yells, tugging on the woman’s sleeve. “Zadie, pay attention!”

Sitting abruptly, she turns to look at us, her chestnut hair flying wildly. My gut twists when her deep brown eyes finally land our way. Sucker punched by her beauty.

No, she’s more than beautiful. She’s breathtaking.

A mess of curled hair frames her petite, heart-shaped face. Mascara is smudged lightly across her porcelain skin. It paints blurred lines between the spattering of freckles, running across her cheeks. The look she wears—a mixture of confusion and sadness—is so raw, so honest, it practically brings me to my knees.

My cousin’s right. This woman should not be left alone here. A woman who looks like this—wounded, vulnerable—shouldn’t be left alone anywhere. Ever.

Her open expression is quickly hidden when she registers what’s going on around her.

“Caleb, this is Zadie,” Chante says, pulling us in close so we can hear her above the music. “Zadie, meet Caleb. He’s a good guy, you can trust him. He’s going to make sure you get home safe tonight. Now, I gotta run. I’ll check in when I can—if I can.” Turning to walk away, she calls back over her shoulder, “Be good!”

And like that she’s gone, leaving the two of us a little awe struck and speechless in her wake.

Turning my gaze back to Zadie, I ask, “Is she always that bossy?”

Laughter—sweet, melodic, exuberant, and pure. The sound of Zadie’s lilting laugh is a full-body experience. It starts in my ears, but travels through me, settling somewhere around the base of my spine. Or maybe it just traveled straight to my dick. I can’t be sure. I’m having a hard time concentrating on anything other than that gorgeous sound. Everything else—even the vibrating electro-mix that assaults us from all sides—fades to background noise. Her mouth curves so sweetly, and her dark rimmed eyes squint and sparkle with intoxicated delight—nothing else could hold my interest now.

“She’s an emergency room doctor,” she says. “If she wasn’t bossy, people would die. Trust me, if you ever end up in the hospital, you want someone like her in charge.”

Maybe her words should bother me. They should remind me of my battle with illness and all my time spent in hospital.

But they don’t.

All I notice is the way her sad eyes rove over me with interest, and how incredibly sober she sounds.

“So, Chante didn’t tell me much, except that you’re here alone and I’m supposed to get you home.”

“She loves looking out for me. It’s alright—Cal, was it? I’m fine,” she insists.

“It’s Caleb, actually. I don’t think anyone’s ever called me Cal.”

“I like Cal. It’s very masculine, very sexy sounding. Suits you perfectly. You should go with it.”

Well, maybe she’s a little shit-faced after all.

I’ve been called cute, nice, and funny. My sister-in-law Jamie once called me charming. But masculine and sexy? Those words are reserved for guys like my brother—the silent brooders who simply smile at a woman and then hop into bed. Not a guy like me. I barely know how to flirt.

“I promised Chante I’d take care of you. Can’t break that promise, or I’ll be out a place to stay,” I tell her.

“Oh, you’re the one she told me about. The one who’s visiting from Ontario?”

My stomach drops at the thought of what my cousin might’ve told her. Does she know about my fight to come out here? About my near-death experience? Will I ever get a chance to be anything, other than the boy who beat cancer?

“Yeah, that’s me. So, can I get you a taxi home?”

“What? So soon? Come on, Cal... let’s stay a while. We’re responsible adults. Let’s have drinks together. When you’re half as drunk as me you can have me in a cab. Okay?”

Was that an innuendo or just a drunken slip? The way she said my name—even if it’s not really my name—and the tiny smirk playing on her lips makes me believe it was intentional. At least, I can hope it was.

“A couple of drinks sounds nice. But after that I’m taking you straight home.”

Smiling brightly at me, she winks before turning to the bartender. “Jean-Paul! J’en veux deux autres,” she calls, motioning for two more drinks.

The bartender calls back with a sweet French endearment. The fondness in his tone makes me wary. It’s too affectionate, too personal. It makes me edgy to think about what kind of trouble this woman could be in without me here.

“Where’re you from?”

“What makes you think I’m not from here?” She smiles again—playful and alluring.

“It’s your accent. It’s a good attempt, but you’re not Francophone.”

“And how would you know that, Mr. Ontario?”

“My mom’s Quebecois, I grew up with both languages.”

“Well, shit. Here I thought I was doing good. No one else has called me out for my fake French accent. J.P. certainly hasn’t complained.” She motions back toward the bartender, who’s still watching Zadie, even while he mixes our drinks.

“Sorry, it’s not that bad. Besides, I’m sure Jean-Paul’s used to us Anglophones butchering the language. Frenchies like him won’t correct us, they’ll just roll their eyes and call us names behind our backs.”

“What do you think he’s calling us?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure whatever he calls me is insulting. But you? I think he’d probably call you something like pitoune, and he’d probably say it to your face.”

“Pitoune? What does that mean?”

“It’s an endearment—like calling you babe.”

I’m treated to more of her silvery laughter as Jean-Paul hastily brings the ordered drinks. Giving Zadie a sly smile, his hand lingers next to her glass. She’s either ignoring his interest or is oblivious to it. Her eyes don’t leave mine as she politely thanks him.

“Here, let me,” I offer when she starts digging in her purse. I hand over a twenty before she can argue.

Jean-Paul doesn’t look as happy with his tip as he should, and his mumbled French curse confirms exactly what he thinks of me. But he leaves us alone with our drinks and the sea of people surrounding us.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” I prompt.

“Which question?” She sounds innocent, but looks devilish as hell.

“Where you’re from.”

“Can I be perfectly honest with you, Cal? I hate answering that question. Every time I tell someone where I’m from it inevitably leads to questions about why I came here. That leads to questions about why I stayed. And then more uncomfortable questions about how I manage to keep smiling every day.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m complicated. And I’m just tired of talking about it. I’m tired of people feeling sorry for me all the time. I don’t feel sorry for me—most of the time. Tonight might be a little different.”

“This will probably sound like a really lame line, but I understand exactly what you mean. People and their pity can feel like a weight pulling you down. It’s like they’re so busy feeling sorry for you, they forget you’re more than just some ugly event you’ve lived through.”

“Yes! That’s it, exactly.”

“When you do feel sorry for yourself, do you ever wonder if the emotion really belongs to you?”

Her smile doesn’t dim, but she hesitates before slowly shaking her head.

“Sometimes I feel like the sadness doesn’t belong to me anymore,” I explain, “I’ve had to share it with everyone else for so long... or, maybe it was never mine to begin with, it just transferred from someone else.”

“Now there’s a deep thought. Unfortunately, it might be a little too philosophical for me right now. But you’ll have to tell me your story someday, Cal. I have a feeling it’s a good one.”

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

“Get another drink in me and you might just get lucky.”

The alcohol and the innuendos continue to flow. Zadie quickly finishes her drink while we chat about Chante. We’re both astounded by my cousin’s ability to maintain order at work, but zero in her apartment. When her drink is gone, Zadie orders half a dozen shots, downing the first while we talk about the city. She slams back her second while we laugh at each other’s terrible use of French slang.

The conversation remains light and easy. We talk like old friends catching up, instead of strangers who’ve been forced on each other. Except, unlike old friends, there’s an unmistakable current of sexual energy flowing fast and powerful between us. Every time she opens her mouth, I’m drawn to her words, the melody of her voice, and the striking way her features emphasize everything she says.

“I was feeling sorry for myself tonight.” Her speech is noticeably slurred after four drinks—plus one in hand.

“Is that why you’re getting drunk, alone in a bar? Kind of cliché, don’t you think?”

“Cliché? Really, Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome? Who’s cliché? Besides, I’m not alone. I’m with you.”

The heat of her words slides up my spine. “You really are drunk.”

“Yes, I am. It feels good, too. I almost don’t give a shit about anything. Self-pity eradicated, one drink at a time!” she declares, raising her glass in cheer.

“Do you want to talk about it—whatever it is you’re trying to forget?”

“Why? You don’t really want to hear my sob story, do you?”

“Yes, if you want to tell it, I do.”

“Really? You want to know how I got screwed over by a man? Want to hear how totally cliché my whole life has been? It’s like a really bad lifetime movie.” She frowns. “A poor, heartbroken girl falls for a semi-famous rich guy. He’s wonderful at first. He promises to take her away from her problems, to give her a good life, to love her. He promises her everything. Except, it’s all too good to be true... Is that really the kind of story you want to hear?” She’s ranting. Her words slurring together as her focus wavers between me and the drink in her hand. Every time she looks up, her long lashes fan out around her big doe eyes.

I’m captivated.

“He told me he was in love with me,” she confides. “He told me he couldn’t live without me and I believed him. I wanted to believe him."

Pausing, she watches her finger trace the moisture on her glass. “I moved here for him, and six months later he left me. I hardly knew anyone, I could barely speak the language, and the job I’d found was crap. But I didn’t break. I kept going, got my shit together and made new plans for myself.”

She sighs, looking up at me again with an expression that would melt the coldest of hearts. “Then he came back, and like the desperate, pathetic loser that I am, I let him in. I let him back into my life... back into my bed.” Her face contorts in disgust. “Can you guess what happened next, Cal?”

“He left again?”

“BINGO!” she yells. “I woke up to a note that said he had to go. A note! He took everything he’d ever bought me and a couple of things he hadn’t. Just like that.” She snaps her fingers clumsily. “He’s an asshole and a fucking thief—and I didn’t even see it coming. How fucking sad is that?” Her words are stark, her tone wounded.

“Doesn’t sound too sad to me,” I confess.

“But it is,” she insists. “I should have been the one to leave, not him. Better yet, I shouldn’t have let him come back—I should have been stronger. I’ve made way too many mistakes.”

She’s sharing a deeply personal chink in her armor—a weakness that somehow makes her stronger. Somehow, it makes me feel like we’re connected. Our stories couldn’t be further apart, yet we’re both guarded, hiding our hurts from the world.

“Anyway, look at you,” she continues. “You seem too confident and smart to make those kinds of mistakes. You don’t think it’s sad because you can’t identify with it.”

“Zadie, confidence is just a mask people wear to hide the truth. And I’m not that smart—trust me, I’ve made mistakes. I can relate.” Blocking her protest, I cover her delicate hand with my own. She jolts at the contact, but her eyes don’t stray from mine. “I don’t think your story’s sad because what I see is a chance for you to start over. He’s the one losing out, not you.”

“Oh, no, you’re one of those glass half-full people. The sun’s always sparkling? Rainbows, squirrels, and unicorns and...fuuuuck. I’m drunk.” She shakes her head, like the movement might help make sense of things. Our hands lose contact in the process.

“Yes, you most certainly are. I would never put squirrels and unicorns in the same category,” I tease. “Those beasts are just plain magical—with their bushy tails and cute little bucked teeth.”

“Okay, one more drink, Cal,” she proclaims, my bad joke escaping her. “Then I need to go.”

“Why don’t you just finish the drink in your hand? Then I’ll take you home.”

She looks down at the glass she’s holding. It’s the same one she was intently studying, only moments ago. The wonder on her face is priceless. Her smile’s so bright, you’d think a tumbler of amber liquid had solved all her problems.

As she takes a gulp, I sneak in, “You’re better off without him.”

“How would you know that?” she challenges, after swallowing half the glass. “You only heard part of the story.”

“Isn’t the reason obvious?”

She stares dazedly at me. She’s either trying to sort the answer, or trying to focus on the multiple versions of me she’s likely seeing right now.

“Not once in that story did you mention anything about being in love with him,” I explain. “Past or present.”

“Okay, sunshine man, you nailed it. But that’s only because I don’t believe in love. It’s just made up bullshit that keeps us all distracted. Believing in love is like living in the matrix. Except, no one has to be tricked into swallowing the pill, everyone happily jumps right in.”

“I’m pretty sure you have to take the pill to get out of the matrix, not into it. But love? Love is real, Zadie. Love is so damn real.”

“You’ve been in love before?”

“No, but I’ve seen it.” I’ve dreamed of it. “When you see the kind of love I have, you know. It’s undeniable.”

“Guess that’s the problem then. All I’ve ever been shown is heartbreak and lies.” She draws a deep breath as though to speak again, but pauses—the corners of her mouth, twitching downward.

Finally, she releases her breath, her eyes jolting up to mine.

“Take my parents for example,” she continues, nonchalant. “They hated each other. Now, my mom has a new boyfriend every third day. And that kinda proves my point.” Her words slur together again as she squints up at me. “Love can’t possibly be real. Not if it’s so easy to fall in and out of. Not when a man can tell you he loves you, fuck you, and then leave you the next day. Not when love is a lie.”

“Alright, you might want to reconsider finishing that drink,” I encourage. “I’m not sure you need it.”

“But this drink is my best friend,” she pleads before quickly downing the rest in a protective gesture.

Her exaggerated pout into the empty glass is both comical and completely adorable. The way her full bottom lip sticks out to the side, not the front, and the way her eyebrows arch dramatically, one higher than the other—she’s perfectly undone in the sloppiest sort of way.

She’s wonderful.

“I think it’s time to go.”

“Just one...” She squints into the cup. “Last...” Tips it up over her open mouth. She captures the final drop of liquid on her tongue.

And then falls off the barstool.

My hand finds her waist as I catch her roughly, her elbow digging into my side. Preventing her tumble to the floor is slightly painful, but ends with her in my arms—so I’m not complaining.

“All right, Dropsy. Now, can we go?”

“Mmm-Hmm,” she murmurs, looking up at me through heavy eyelids.

She looks ready to pass out. But that doesn’t stop her from snaking her arms around my neck and weaving her hands through my hair.

It doesn’t stop her from kissing me.

Her lips are warm and sticky with liquor. Her tongue’s the flavor of caramel and spice. She feels vibrant, tastes dynamic, and her sigh sounds like a promise being made.

For a moment, I forget why kissing her is a bad idea. I forget why it’s wrong.

How could it be wrong when it’s an awakening? The heaviness I’ve been carrying is lifted with her touch. The fragrant aroma of her lush and lazy mouth is an answer to all my questions. Every one of my naive fantasies comes true with the wet glide of her tongue.

Kissing her makes everything feel right.

Until I come to my senses and remember she’s drunk. I’m supposed to be the good guy, doing the right thing. Not a horny miscreant taking advantage.

Tearing my mouth from hers, I tell her, “Time to get that cab.”

Hauling her into the taxi, I realize it was a mistake to let her have that final drink. She’s too drunk to tell me where she lives. My only option is to bring her home with me.

It’s laughable.

I’m bringing a girl home for the first time. She’s out of her mind drunk, it’s not really my home, and I have zero intention of trying anything with her. Most guys probably wouldn’t find the situation too funny.

Thankfully, it’s not one of those other guys taking her home.

From first sight of her at the bar, I’ve felt responsible for her. And not just because Chante demanded it. I might be a little afraid of my cousin’s promised wrath, but ultimately, the protectiveness is instinct. Any doubts or second thoughts over those instincts were erased when Zadie told me her story. When I heard the fear in her words but the solid determination in her voice, I knew could never abandon her alone in a bar. Or anywhere else for that matter.

But then, that kiss...

That kiss has thrown me head first into a romantic fantasy. Zadie’s taken center stage in all my foolhardy dreams of the future. It makes me want to stamp Mine across her ass and battle any jerk who dares look at her funny.

It makes me want a hell of a lot more than just a kiss.

The cab bumps over a pothole, pitching Zadie’s half-limp body in my direction. When her shoulder hits mine, instead of pulling back, she drunkenly cuddles closer. Resting her head on my shoulder, she curls her body into mine. Gathering all my will, I ignore the way her curves press into my side. I pretend not to feel her hand brushing over my stomach. Or her breath, fanning over my neck as she burrows her face into it.

Each time she sighs, or moves her legs against mine, I’m made painfully aware of how good she feels next to me.

Too damn good.

My body takes notice.

Getting aroused by a few innocent touches would be embarrassing if she were sober enough to realize. It usually takes more than the brush of a knee across my thigh to turn me on. But it might be hard to convince her of that with an erection tenting my pants.

Keeping my thoughts focused on her inebriation is the only thing stopping me from wrapping my arms around her and pulling her farther into my lap.

After the cab stops and I pay the fare, I’m faced with a new challenge. Getting Zadie up to the condo. She refuses to walk. I’m forced to carry her from the taxi, through the condo lobby, and into the old-fashioned elevator—which seems to take an eternity to rise to the second floor.

I juggle Zadie in my arms while struggling to get the key out of my pocket. I don’t want to drop her. Or inadvertently touch her in all the inappropriate ways I’m tempted.

Finally in the apartment, I manage to quietly close the door behind us. Just as I’m turning the lock, Zadie’s eyes snap open. Her jelly neck turns rigid as she looks at me—first in confusion and then in slow recognition.

At least, it seems like recognition.

She perks up at the sight of me, and wraps her arms around my neck again. Deciding to torture me, she presses her mouth to my ear and huskily announces, “I’m horny.”

I am a saint.

Walking her to the bedroom, I try to ignore the way her tongue glides along my jaw, as I gently put her down beside the bed.

“You’re drunk,” I tell her, helping to steady her on her feet. “And I’m tired. Get in bed and I’ll find you some aspirin and water.”

With an exaggerated pout—her kissable bottom lip pushed out—she reaches for me. Grabbing a handful of my shirt, she coaxes, “But Cal, I want to fuck. You. I want to fuck you. Come on... you know you want to.”

I’ve never wanted anything more.

Holding her fisted hand in my own, I carefully detach myself. “Just get in bed, Zadie.”

“Your bed?” she asks with a devilish smile. She unbuttons her pants and starts peeling away the tight denim, clinging to her shapely legs.

I stumble backward. With my eyes glued to the hint of hot pink lace at the top of her hip, I force myself to ignore her invitation. Leaving the room and the promise of her bare flesh, I go search for my sanity.

I take my time in the kitchen, looking for hangover remedies—she’s going to need them all. There’s not much in Chante’s cupboards, but I do find some control for my libido.

Deciding it’s safe, I hesitate only slightly before checking back in on her. Mercifully, she’s sound asleep. Somehow, she’s even managed to find her way under the covers.

I should leave her alone. I should just put a wastebasket beside the bed and shut the door.

But, I can’t.

What if she gets sick? What if she isn’t coherent enough to find the wastebasket? Or worse, what if she doesn’t even wake up, and chokes to death on her own vomit? It sounds ridiculous, but these things really do happen. I’ve spent enough time in hospital to see and hear the horror stories.

So, I make an unconscious decision to stay up half the night, watching over her just in case.

It isn’t my intention to fall asleep in the same bed as her. I plan to find my way to the couch and do the honorable thing. But somehow, I nod off.

As I sleep peacefully beside her, my dreams are filled with musical laughter, soulful brown eyes and a sad, haunting smile. Her words, “I don’t believe in love”, echoing over it all.

***

Zadie

I HEAR FAR AWAY sounds. Everything is muffled and nothing makes sense. No matter how hard I try to focus on those sounds, I can’t make out their meaning.

I’m surrounded by grey. My eyes won’t open. Or, maybe they are open and I just can’t see.

Can’t hear. Can’t see. My head feels like it’s fractured.

Am I in a coma?

There’s movement to my right—someone shifting beside me.

Slowly, things become clear. Well, not clear like the ocean. Probably not even tap water. It’s more like an algae infested swamp kind of clear. But awareness does filter in.

I’m not dying. I’m simply hung-the-hell-over.

I’ve never felt this horrible in all my life. Going on a bender is not common practice—I rarely even drink. This is a good reminder of why.

The bed shifts again, and with the movement comes the reality that I’m in a bed, and I’m not alone.

Cracking my eyes, I move my head gently, trying to not rupture anything in the process. The first sight that greets me is a pillow. Craning to look around a little more, I realize I’m in Chante’s guest room. I’d know this room anywhere. I spent many nights in this room while I was attempting to get my life in order, when I was too fragile to be on my own. This room was my solace when everything else had gone to hell. I must have found my way here on instinct last night when my pity party was in full swing.

Ignoring the urge to vomit, I push myself to sit. Turning in the direction of my bed-mate, I’m praying to find Chante sleeping beside me.

Nope. That is definitely not Chantal. That is a man.

My sleeping partner has his back to me, but even through my still blurred vision, I can see he’s lean and muscular. His shoulder length dark hair is sleep tousled and wonderfully soft looking. If I could make a pillow out of that hair I think I could probably sleep on it for days.

The idea of going back to sleep is tempting. But I know the person beside me is likely Chante’s cousin—the handsome guy I got obscenely loaded with and told my stupidly pitiful secrets. Sleep is out of the question.

I told him about Sean. Sure, I kept the details to myself, but Christ, I hate talking about Sean. It’s embarrassing and degrading, and I can’t believe it’s part of my story.

Cliché. That was the word thrown around last night. It totally fits. I am a walking, talking, living cliché, and it totally sucks to admit it. Talking about it with anyone is an uncomfortable exercise in self-depreciation. But, talking about it with a near stranger—especially one so damn hot?

Well, I have the killer hangover to explain, in part, how that happened. Last night, though—it felt like more than just the liquor loosening me up.

The way Caleb looked at me was so different from the way men normally do. He wasn’t just seeing the hair and the tits. He was seeing me... accepting me... I felt understood.

His ribcage falls steadily with each breath. His peacefulness is so soothing, my headache seems to dull. Flashes of memory from last night filter in, like a tap being turned from a trickle to a full, steady stream. Images of the two of us talking and laughing. His brilliant green eyes sparkled, even in the dim lighting of the bar. The way he smiled at me, like I was the most interesting person he’d ever met. That smile had me turning to a puddle on the floor. It lights up his entire face and is somehow both mischievous and genuine at the same time. But the thing I remember most—other than being incredibly turned on by the sight of him—is the way he empathized with me. He was so real, so honest. So fucking hot.

And I kissed him.

Holy shit.

Yes, I did that. It’s not something I dreamed up. It’s not an illusion borne of alcohol poisoning or leftover intoxication. I know I did it. As drunk as I was, it’s one memory I trust to be true. My lips still feel scorched from the heated desire that radiated off him. Or maybe that was my own desire burning things up.

Beyond that searing kiss—nothing. I can’t remember anything more than how his mouth fused so effortlessly with mine.

How did we end up in bed together? Did we have sex?

Taking stock, I note that I’m still wearing my t-shirt, bra, and underwear, but my jeans are on the floor. My body hurts all over, the four (or was it seven) drinks I consumed, leaving their mark on more than just my brain. There’s a pleasant ache between my thighs. Is it because I’m thinking about that kiss and the hot man I’m in bed with? Or is it because I had sex with him last night?

Why can’t I remember?

My eyes move over him again, inspecting him closely.

He’s not wearing the same clothes he was at the bar last night. He’s got a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt on now. The shirt, clinging to his broad shoulders, brings back a memory of my arms being wrapped around him. Although it’s hard to place that memory. Was it before or after leaving the bar? Were our clothes on or off? I think I’d remember if they were off—wouldn’t I?

Despite our clothing and separated sleeping space, I’m still filled with an anxious dread. What happened last night? The delicious ache between my legs isn’t helping my anxiety. It sure as hell isn’t giving any hints.

Even though I’m tempted by this beautiful man. And even though I want to crawl over there, curl myself around him and drift off to sleep—I can’t let that happen. That would be a terrible decision.

Clarity strikes like a lightning bolt through a rain cloud.

I’ve got to get the hell out of here. Now.

Not only is Caleb my best friend’s cousin, but I know from what little she’s told me, he’s her younger cousin. Much younger. Practically cradle robbing, younger.

It doesn’t matter how attractive I find him. It doesn’t matter how extraordinarily perceptive and mature is. The only thing that matters is never letting this happen ever again. Whatever it might have been. I can’t afford any more mistakes.

And there’s no question. This was a mistake.

Keeping as quiet as possible, I manage to make my way out of bed and pull on my pants. Tiptoeing to the door, I look back to make sure he isn’t waking.

Big mistake—I said I wouldn’t make any more, but fuck, I’m hopeless.

He looks so good. His face, just as I remember from last night, fresh and inviting. Not the standard level of male perfection that most women go for, he’s not rugged or bulky. He’s lean and edgy, yet somehow refined and sweet. Even in his sleep, he looks honest and caring—perfectly constructed to make me fall for him.

He looks a hell of a lot younger, too. Maybe it’s the hair. What grown man wears it that long, anyway? Maybe it’s his cleanly shaved face; no five o’clock shadow for this guy. Or maybe it’s just my guilt, I’ve got enough of it stored away.

Using that guilt as my fuel, I quietly leave Chante’s apartment. Shutting the door behind me, I take out my cell phone and dial her number.

“Hey babe, how badly are you hurting this morning?” She asks, loudly, as I step into the elevator.

Here’s the thing about me and Chante—we hide absolutely nothing from each other. We’ve seen each other at our absolute worst. After Sean left me the first time, she helped me climb out of the hole he’d put me in. It was the same type of hole she’d pulled herself out of only months before we met.

We both dated assholes.

The difference is, when Chante and I first met, I was still putting up with Sean and all his bullshit. She’d already done the smart thing and ditched her loser. Although I never met him, and Chante’s always reluctant to talk about him, I know enough. I know he hurt her—he may be a thing of the past, but her wounds still seem fresh. That’s all I need to know.

Our failed relationships, failed attempts at love, are what bonded us. Hell, she even stuck by me when I let Sean come back. She wasn’t happy about it. She warned me it was a mistake. But she stood by and supported me anyway.

Chante knows everything about me. That’s not about to change, even if what I tell her next puts us in a month-long, or even year-long, fight. I refuse to lie to my best friend.

“I think I might have had sex with your cousin.”

Her answer is a bark of laughter, snorting included.

“Why are you laughing? It’s not funny, you cow.”

“Oh honey, yes, it is,” she replies, as the elevator doors open to my floor—one up from Chante’s. “Trust me, with the condition you were in, it definitely didn’t happen.”

“You don’t know that,” I insist. “I have a very distinct memory of licking his neck. I’m pretty sure I didn’t dream it. Well, mostly sure anyway. And I woke up in your guest room this morning.”

“So?”

“So,” I answer, my boots echo softly as I walk down the carpeted hallway to my apartment. “He was in the bed with me.”

Her laughter resumes, clearly at my expense. Normally, making Chante laugh would be the highlight of my day. I love this woman like a sister. When she’s happy, I’m happy. But right now, I feel like I’m on the wrong side of a very sick and twisted joke. And it’s pissing me off.

“Chante!” I exclaim, dragging myself home and slumping back against the door as I close it. “Stop laughing at me and tell me if I should be worried about him. Please.”

“Babe, I’m laughing because I can guarantee you, without a single shred of doubt, you did not have sex with Caleb. I don’t doubt that you probably tried, you whore. But he’s an angel. He wouldn’t have slept with you when you were wasted. Not unless you somehow convinced him to get drunk with you.”

“I can’t remember, but I know I kissed him, and it wasn’t one-sided,” I admit. Staring at the worn hardwood under my feet, I try to focus on anything other than the crushing guilt I feel.

“Well then, I have no idea what happened between the two of you, and I don’t want to know,” she insists. “If you do somehow remember the details, be sure to keep them to yourself. I know how you love to over-share.”

“Excuse me, Ms. And then he stuck it in my ass? I’m not the one with the wild stories. But I am sorry about any of my drunken escapades with your cousin.”

“Don’t be. You’re human. If we can’t mess up from time to time, what’s the point? Besides, I really doubt anything happened. Why do you think I left you with him, instead of putting you in a cab myself? I trust him to be sensible.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling strangely disappointed. Why the hell I’d feel anything other than giant relief is confusing as hell. I blame it on the lingering hangover that’s still rocking my skull.

“Oh?” Chante replies, skeptically. “Did you want to have sloppy sex with my baby cousin?”

“What? No!” I object.

“Oh my God. You really are a whore. You totally want to bone him.”

“Oh my God, Chante, please never use the word bone again.” I laugh.

“He’s a good guy, Zadie,” she says seriously. “A really good guy. But, he’s young, and he’s got his own problems. Plus, you don’t need a man—you just barely got rid of the last one, remember?”

Like I could ever forget.

“Honestly, I was just worried that I’d drunkenly seduced him. I don’t need you calling me cougar, whore is bad enough. How old is he anyway?”

“Old enough to decide for himself,” she insists. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Let’s get together later, you can confess all your pervish fantasies over food.”

“I don’t have any fantasies,” I insist. “Other than a shower and something to absorb the alcohol still swimming in my system.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. I’ll call you,” she promises, before hanging up.

Finding my way to the bathroom, I strip off my bar-scented clothing, and hit the shower. The powerful spray does nothing to ease the throbbing of my brain. Or my heart. As the water rushes over me it mixes with the tears that are steadily streaming down my face.

I’m not crying about Sean. It’s only been a week, but I really am glad to be rid of him. My tears aren’t self-pity, either—I had enough of that last night. Heck, I’m not even crying because of the pain from this wretched hangover.

No, these tears are from my brief encounter with a thing called hope. Something I gave up on, right around the time I gave up on love. Last night, maybe even a bit this morning, I let myself feel a glimmer of it. Hope surfaced when Caleb smiled at me, hung on while he listened, tried to dig in when I kissed him... but then when I woke up, sobered up, and recognized the stupid impossibility, hope didn’t just die—I killed it.

Keeping it alive would just be another mistake.

How many can I make in one lifetime? In one night?

I seriously hope Chante’s right and I didn’t make as many as I fear. Sex complicates things enough when you’re sober. Drunk sex that you can’t remember? Thinking of the possible repercussions reminds me why drinking my face off is never a good plan.

But Caleb.

With any luck, he’ll wake up like me—regretfully hung over, with little to no recollection of getting that way. He’ll return home to his life, and I can go on pretending like nothing happened.

Mistakes forgotten.

Hope left dead, right where it belongs...

Beside the dried-up corpse of love.