Page 49 of On the Breakaway

But I’m starting to wonder if I hate her as much as I say I do.

I pull the blankets back for her, and it feels strangely intimate. More intimate somehow than accidentally seeing her half undressed in the bathroom doorway. Maybe because this feels gentle and domestic in a way I’d rather not think about.

She crawls into bed slowly, face immediately half-buried in the pillow. The alcohol catches up to her now that she’s stopped moving. Her lashes rest heavily against flushed cheeks, breathing evening out as the tension starts draining from her body.

Earlier, at the bar, she looked like somebody trying to outrun herself, and now, for the first time all night, she looks peaceful.

I wish I didn’t notice.

I shove my hands into my pockets before I can do something stupid like brush the hair out of her face.

“You know what you said earlier?” I ask quietly. “About me being like your ex.”

Her eyes crack open slightly. She watches me through obvious exhaustion.

“We’re not alike.” My jaw tightens. “Because I’m not acting.”

When she doesn’t respond, I wonder if she’s too drunk or tired to process my words. Then her expression softens in this small, almost sad way that catches me completely off guard.

She sighs quietly and reaches over to switch off the bedside lamp, darkness settling softly across the room except for the spill of hallway light behind me.

I’m halfway out the door when her voice stops me.

“I think I’m starting to believe you.”

11

Avery

I wake up feeling like my head’s been run through a wood chipper.

Tequila’s a bitch.

At first, I don’t open my eyes. Pain throbs behind my temples in brutal pulses while my stomach plots revenge. Even breathing feels slightly too ambitious for the state my body is currently in. A soft groan escapes me as I drag the blanket higher, squinting against the pale light shining through my closed eyelids.

Wait.

I frown as awareness starts creeping in beneath the hangover.

The mattress beneath me is firmer than mine. The sheets smell different, too, not floral, but some sort of masculine spice.

Slowly, reluctantly, I crack one eye open.

My pile of laundry isn’t in the corner. Makeup and hair supplies aren’t scattered across the dresser, and there’s no photo collage on the far wall. Instead, the room has dark walls and almost no clutter besides a stack of books on the dresser.

This is not my apartment.

Every remaining trace of sleep evaporates instantly.

Where the hell am I? Had I actually slept with someone last night? Could I do that and not remember?

My heart lurches violently as I jerk upright. The room tilts sideways as last night’s drinks threaten to make a reappearance.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper hoarsely, pressing a hand to my pounding head.

Then my eyes snag on the picture frame sitting next to the books on the dresser. Three women crowd around a tall, brown-haired guy in the center, all of them laughing at something off-camera.

Grayson.