Aerial

The Eighteenth Chapter

"Where in the hell did all of this cash come from?"

You don't remember falling asleep on the couch, with Harry's jacket balled up as a makeshift pillow underneath your head and dollar bills spilling out from the cushion and onto the floor. But judging by Nettie's humorously horrified expression, you must have done just that.

The entire scene is completely oppositional to your character in every which way; an abundance of makeup still plastered to your face and smeared across your eyelids, your hair down and crumpled in the spot where it was smashed against your cheek throughout the night, borrowed trousers now wrinkled at the knees and hips, a psychedelic rock and roll record sleeping on the turntable, a hangover that battles even the mightiest of lovesick anguish.

A hundred and fifty-six dollars of stolen cash littering the living room as if a burglar had tossed it up like confetti and then frolicked in their proud glory.

Annoying streaks of sun the color of hot lightning and lemon meringue pie scorch the high pile rug and straight through your eyelids, bleaching your vision a bloody red that matches your headache and the memory of the dim lighting inside of Chubby's last night. The reminder of Chubby's floods your mind with Harry, his palm gripping your thigh and his thumb drawing mystery letters into your skin on the car ride home. That one sizzling kiss that he sponged in the dip of your neck just above your clavicle, the tip of his tongue peeking out to send an electrical current to your stomach. It feels as though so many lines were crossed last night that there's no way in hell the two of you could ever backtrack now, and all the mysterious forks and dead ends that lie ahead start to make you homesick with turbulence.

You've never been someone who moves forward without a solid list of plans and detailed roadmaps of destinations and it would seem like Harry is the exact opposite, following the sea breeze wherever it may lead him next. A true hedonist, a blood hound for whichever avenue feels the best in his guts. A surfer both of the ocean tide and of life.

And the compass of his hands and the compassion of his mouth are much too seductive to ignore.

"This is like, over a hundred bucks. What did you do last night?" Nettie slams the door behind her, tossing her keys onto the console table and laughs when you flinch and gripe at the loud sounds, "are you hungover, young lady?"

You whine and smack your palm against your face before curling back up on the couch, catching a familiar faded whiff of cotton candy frenzy from Harry's jacket before you hug a pillow against your chest, "I don't have the capacity to answer any questions right now."

Another flash of Harry's mouth sucking a salty patch of skin past his teeth, his curls tickling your chest, his breath hitting your cheek in eager pants and you groan again as your stomach turns in passionate nausea. Your mind immediately floats away to curiosity about his current whereabouts, if he woke up early to go surfing as he normally does or if he slept in and waited for the sun to thaw him. Is he thinking about you in this exact moment too, curled up shirtless in his sheets and journeying into the vast sky of powder blue through his pop top sunroof, wondering if you're regretting denying his kiss at the end of the night? You have a crushing desire to see him right now, to rinse the night away and show up at the door of his van with your hair drying around your cheeks just as he likes, pounding on the glass and begging him to recreate the entire evening, down to the very last detail of hiding in the vestibule from the police with his body pressed up against yours.

"Hello? Are you even hearing me?"

Spun sugar fog disintegrates around you and makes way for the sensation of your brain shriveling inside of your skull, "mmm... not really."

Nettie hangs up her cardigan and slips off her shoes, crossing the room in a few greedy steps before plopping down next to you to keep your attention. She loves you and wants to protect you as much as any good friend should, but she also loves to hear the nitty gritty when it comes to dramatic dirty details. And a shrapnel shower of loose cash sprawled across a room is never without dramatic dirty details, "I asked if he crashed here?" You widen your eyes at the audacity of her insinuation and shake your head in stern denial as she curiously taps her chin and eyes the recognizable jacket that you keep hugged under your temple, "did you mess around?"