Page 76 of My Real Love Affair

Except someone answered.

“Mmmph,” came a sound from my bathroom.

I forced my eyes open—a Herculean effort—and turned my head toward the bathroom door. I saw legs. I blinked, trying to focus. Man legs. Or a really hairy woman.

I stumbled out of bed and pushed the door open a few inches. There, sprawled on the marble floor like a crime scene victim, was Rodney.

“What the hell?” My voice came out like gravel.

“Floor’s comfortable,” Rodney mumbled, not opening his eyes. “Marble’s cool. Nice.”

“You slept on my bathroom floor?”

“Passed out. There’s a difference.”

I closed my eyes again, trying to piece together the night before. The club. The drinks. Too many drinks. Dancing.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Time for you to stop talking so loud.”

“I’m barely talking.”

“Any talking is too loud.”

I walked back to my nightstand where I would normally keep my phone. There was a half-eaten hamburger smeared with ketchup on top of the bun. I didn’t even want to know how that got there. I tried to move it, expecting my phone to be underneath and ended up knocking over a glass of water in the process. It clattered to the floor. Both Rodney and I made sounds of pain at the noise.

“Fuck,” Rodney groaned. “You’re a terrible host.”

“Where’s my phone?”

“How should I know?”

I needed to find my phone. Needed to—what? Check if Melody had texted? Called? Forgiven me for whatever stupid shit I had done last night?

I ignored the man on my floor that was in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. I had on a pair of sweats that I didn’t remember putting on.

I left Rodney and walked out of my bedroom. I stumbled a few times, catching myself on the wall.

Fuck. I was really torn up.

My first stop was the kitchen. I didn’t see my phone on the counter, but the refrigerator was right there. I opened it and found a carton of orange juice.

“Thank God.”

I grabbed it, twisted the cap, and sucked down huge gulps straight from the carton. My head felt like it was going to explode. Once I quenched my thirst, I left the carton on the counter and once again started the search for my phone.

I found it on the living room floor, battery at three percent. The screen was cracked. When the hell had that happened? When I unlocked it, I was met with approximately three thousand notifications.

Instagram. Twitter. Text messages. Missed calls.

But I ignored all of it, going straight to my thread with Melody.

And there it was. The message that made my hangover feel like nothing compared to the sick feeling in my gut. A photo. Me and that blonde from the club, dancing too close, her hands on my chest.

And below it:This isn’t going to work anymore. I wish you all the best, Austin. Thanks for everything.

It was sent three hours ago.