Page 112 of Clinically Awkward

Except I was on my couch. Still wearing yesterday’s jeans. No shirt. One sock.

Classy, Quinton. Very classy.

I sat up slowly, my head protesting the movement, and tried to piece together how I ended up here. I knew Vivian had driven me home. We stumbled into my apartment and I’d kissed her.

She’d kissed me back and then— “Good morning, sunshine.”

I looked up to find Vivian sitting on the other end of the couch, legs tucked under her, holding a mug of coffee and grinning at me like she’d just won the lottery. She was wearing one of my old college T-shirts. A faded Foo Fighters tee that was at least two sizes too big on her, and nothing else that I could see. Her hair was messy. Her eyes were bright. And she looked absolutely fucking perfect.

“You’re awake,” I said stupidly.

“I am,” she confirmed. “You, on the other hand, look like death.”

“I feel like death.”

“Good. You deserve it.”

I rubbed my face, careful to avoid my jaw. “What time is it?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Jesus.”

“You snore, by the way.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do. Like a congested bear.”

I glared at her. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” She took a sip of her coffee, still grinning. “You love me. You said so last night. Multiple times. Very loudly.”

“I was drunk.”

“You were also in jail.”

“Also drunk.”

“And you punched my ex-boyfriend.”

“He punched me first.”

“And then you tackled him.”

“He called you boring.”

Vivian’s grin softened. “Yeah. He did.”

We looked at each other for a moment.

Then she said, “Your jaw looks terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. It’s all purple and swollen. Very attractive.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”