I know it, because I've heard her cry, muttering to him when she's in her bedroom, like he could hear her wherever he was.
She can't have him, so she overcompensates with me.
I lay back on my bed, too exhausted to do much more than move. My bed smells faintly like laundry detergent, but I smell like him. The scent lingers on my clothes from sleeping tangled in his sheets. It's half the reason I haven't bothered to shower, or change… the other half is because I can hardly think straight to function. My mother's messages are already slipping from my mind as Naz's words creep back in, replaying over and over, like a CD skipping.
It would be nice to see what you look like out of those clothes. I just gaped at the car as he drove away, disappearing into traffic. He'd seen me wearing something other than his ridiculous eighties get-up… the first time he saw me I was dressed normally.
It wasn't until I was in the elevator, heading up to my thirteenth floor room, that the double meaning behind those words hit me. It would be nice to see what you look like out of those clothes.
Holy shit, did he mean naked?
I'd been so startled I dropped my phone. Of course.
Sighing, trying to push it from my thoughts, I turn back to my phone and scroll through my contacts. I need to call my mother before she really does call the police. I make it to her name, Mom, when my finger hesitates, my eyes drifting to the name right below it. Naz.
I stare at it. He put his number into my phone at some point yesterday. I don't remember it happening, but that isn't surprising, considering I don't remember most of last night. I wondered how I was supposed to call him and shrugged the entire thing off, but now something stirs inside of me—anxiety, mingling with excitement. Butterflies tear up my stomach. I want to scream, to squeal, to puke. Before, it was harmless flirtation, but now… Jesus, now I can call him.
Oh God, no… I can't. I can't call him.
Can I?
I'm locked in an internal debate, trying to rationalize those feelings, when my phone starts ringing, my mom's name popping up before I can press the button to call her. I answer it, bringing the phone to my ear. "Hey, Mom, I was just about to call you."
"Karissa, where have you been? I've been worried!"
"I'm sorry. I, uh…" I went out drinking last night and was drugged and woke up in a strange guy's bed with one hell of a hangover. You know, all those things you worried would happen to me when I moved to NYC, but I told you only happened in the movies. "I dropped my phone yesterday and messed it up. I just got it working again."
That's true, at least.
"I thought something happened to you!"
"I'm fine, Mom," I say. "I just talked to you the day before yesterday… or the one before that. Nothing's going to happen to me."
She lets out a deep sigh. She doesn't argue with my words, but I know they don't reassure her. Switching the subject, I ask her how everything's going in Watertown and how things are working out at the flower shop she opened.
Watertown is where we lived the longest, the place that finally started to feel like home. We moved there from Syracuse right after my sixteenth birthday and she hasn't left yet.
Yet.
She's rambling on and on about how spring's coming and the flowers will soon bloom, and I'm trying to pay attention, but the words are fading away into a fog. The door flings open after a few minutes as I'm humming in acknowledgement to something my mom says, Melody appearing in the doorway. She does a double take when she sees me, her eyes wide. I can see the questions written all over her face and know, in about twenty seconds, an interrogation is coming.
"Mom, I need to go," I say, not wanting to be on the phone when it happens. "I'll call you later, okay?"
"Okay," she says, hesitating like she doesn't want to hang up. "I love you, Karissa."
"Love you, too."
I hang up with my finger still touching the screen when the dam breaks and the questions start flooding out. "What happened to you? Where did you go? Where have you been? Why haven't you called? And why the hell are you still wearing that?"
Rolling my eyes, I sit up. My head is still throbbing, despite the handful of pills I popped when I got to the room. I've had hangovers before, but this is more. This is a fuzziness I can't seem to shake.
"You first," I say. "What happened to you at Timbers?"
"I met a guy. Your turn."
Melody stares at me, awaiting some sort of response as I try to get my thoughts together and decide how much to tell her.
"Same," I respond. "I met a guy, too."
Her eyes widen. "Really? Who?"
"He's nobody," I say, not believing it even as the words leave my lips. That man is indisputably somebody. "So did you leave with the douche in the flight suit or what?"
She eyes me for a moment in silence, as if debating whether to push me for more, but she thankfully shrugs it off. "Yeah. His name's Pat or Pete or something, I can't remember. Maybe it's Parker? We made out and then passed out."
"Same," I say again. "Except for the whole making out part."
"So you went home with a guy and… passed out?"
"Pretty much."
"Well, that's disappointing."
I let out a light laugh as I stand up and stretch, setting my phone down to let it finish charging. "Yeah, it made for one hell of an awkward morning. So tell me about Pat-Pete-Parker-whatever."
She shifts the subject, going back to talking about whatever his name is, as I gather some clothes to take a shower. I don't mention Naz any more. She'll have more questions—questions I don't have answers for.
"Ugh, I have one hell of a hangover," Melody says eventually. "How are you feeling?"
"Like hell," I say. "I think there was something in one of those drinks last night… a roofie or something. I don't know. It's fuzzy."
She looks at me, horrified. "That's scary. Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure." I hesitate. "I think it was the last one… the one you got from whatever-his-name is."
"No way," she says. "He was totally a gentleman. It must've been another."
"Yeah," I mumble. "Maybe, but be careful, you know, just in case."
"Are you sure you can't come?" Melody asks, exaggeratedly frowning as she sits across from me, clothes piled high all around her—this time on purpose. An empty suitcase sits on the floor by her feet, waiting to be filled.
"I'm sure," I say. "If I could, I would, but I can't."