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“This is a bold move,” she teases when she answers, her voice rough with sleep and—I can only imagine—one really bad hangover.
“I thought so, too.” I laugh.
How much of last night does she remember? How much does she want to remember anyway? I might have said too much, lost in whatever moment we were having, but her drunken confessions threw me for a loop, too.
“So.” I clear my throat. “About last night.”
“God, how much of a mess was I?” she groans.
“You were a delight.” I smile.
She snorts. “I’ll take that as a five out of ten.”
“The more important question is how are you feeling?”
“How do you think I’m feeling? Like shit.” She laughs. “And can I tell you … I called out of work.”
“Wow.” I’m impressed.
“Iknow. Used a sick day and everything.”
“Wild streak,” I tease.
“You’re a bad influence,” she says. But with the raspy sound of her voice and the quiet cadence, it doesn’t feel much like an accusation as it does an invitation to play along.
“I think you like it,” I tell her.
And in that same quietly seductive voice she says, “I think I do, too.”
I wish I could see her right now. I wish I could go back to last night and watch her again, her body moving on the dance floor, sweaty and messy and not caring about a thing.
“You know, it’s okay to be a little reckless, but maybe pace yourself. Hangovers are not the same in your thirties.”
Her answering laugh is loud, but I imagine there’s a blush attached to it. One that follows her neck down, one I’d love to follow, too.
“Hey Julie,” I start.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I just left you hanging like that.”
“You didn’t leave anything hanging.”
“I did,” I insist.
“You were trying to get away from the drunk girl that was blabbing away. Nobody would blame you.” She huffs out a laugh. “I crossed a line, and I made you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I tell her.
“You sure looked it.”
“You were drunk,” I admit. I didn’t know how to handle everything she was saying to me when she was drunk enough that there was a chance she wouldn’t remember. “I don’t know what you remember about last night …”
“I remember all of it, believe it or not.”
Everything gets quieter; everything becomes amplified. The sound of her breath on the other line, the rustle of bedsheetswhere I assume she’s sprawled out, the clearing of her throat. So that answers that.
“I meant everything I said,” I whisper.
