It's coming back to me. It's fucking coming back to me. I am standing here under boiling hot water that is almost scalding my skin, and I am remembering every single detail of last night. Why does memory work like this? Why is it that when you need something, a piece of information, your brain is like, 'No. Sorry. You can't have that. That is classified information.' Then seconds later, once the need for that information is gone, your brain is like, 'Oh, wait, oops, you can have that information. Here you go. Here is the stuff you need and like three extra memories to compensate for our mistake.' I am recalling exactly what Brendon told me, and then some. I feel sick to my stomach. Not in a literal way, thank God. I replay the scenario a thousand times over as I let the steam pollute the air.
We were sitting there on the sofa, after taking our clothes off. Brendon had his eyes closed, and I remember looking at him. I was thinking about how perfect his features were. His head was leaning back against the sofa, resting. His mouth was slightly open, and his lips pouted just a little, to let air flow freely. I remember leaning over and touching his neck, feeling his Adam's apple protrude exceptionally from his throat. I also remember feeling his lightly scratchy stubble, result of a few days without shaving. His eyes were still closed. My hand moved down from his neck to his chest. I was curious. I wanted to know what his skin would feel like, if it would be as soft as it looked from afar. It was. It was definitely as soft as it looked. My hand made its way down to his stomach. The skin was warmer here. I found my way to the side of his waist, and pulled myself on top of him. For Christ's sake. What the hell was I thinking? I was now sitting on his lap, both my legs on the outside of his, knees bent so my ankles were off the seat. He finally opened his eyes. The dark chocolate gaze seared deep into me, burning with questions, and to break the intense contact, I leaned in and just kissed him. I fucking kissed him. It wasn't even gentle. It was a rough kiss. All my fine motor skills had been thrown right out the window when I had my third shot of whiskey. One of my hands moved to his face, pushing my thumb up his cheek, my other fingers dragging on the hairline behind his hard jaw. His hands made their way to my back, under my shirt and they moved up from the small of my back to the middle, and down again. He was hesitant to bring them any further up, and I don't blame him.
I'm pretty sure I had totally lost my mind at this point, because despite Brendon's clear investment in my inebriated seduction, I got up and walked over to his stereo. He was kissing me back and grabbing at my body, and I got up and left. I ran my finger, the same one that had travelled over Brendon's neck and chest and stomach, over the CDs on the shelf. I pulled a random album from the shelf and inserted it into the drive. After turning the volume to an unpleasant level I turned off the lights and just started dancing.
I step out of the shower hoping that crossing the threshold would cleanse me of my sins. It didn't. I am now cold and still an adulterer. I put my clothes back on and rub my hair dry for the second time with Brendon's towel. I have been here too long. He probably wants me gone.
I walk out of his bedroom and he is sitting on the sofa, head in his hands and his knee is bouncing like he's going cold turkey. I take a deep breath in and walk over to him.
"Brendon, listen, I remember everything, and I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I honestly am. I don't know what I was thinking. You're probably so uncomfortable. I am so sorry."
"Stop." Fuck. "It's my fault, Grace."
"How is it your fault?" I am starting to get annoyed. He can't be mad at himself for this. "I'm the one who came onto you. It's my fault."
"I provided the alcohol."
"I drank like half the bottle."
"I'm just sorry, Grace."
"Are you sorry it happened, or are you sorry because of me?" He looks up and is quiet. I am definitely not sorry it happened. I'm sorry that he feels this bad about it. He doesn't say anything, running his hands through his hair, exasperated. He turns away from me and walks towards the window. My eyes follow him and the window draws my attention. I walk over and join him, staring outside. A snowplow is beeping obnoxiously, clearing the thick white layer from the road. The snow has stopped falling, and the roads are now clear. I'm going home.
"Looks like we are no longer trapped," he says.
"Great." Definitely not great.
I've finally changed into the outfit I was wearing on Friday, and my bag is packed. Brendon picks up his keys from the table next to the door.
We get in his car and he drives me home in total silence. Neither of us are comfortable, and it's only because of each other. We pull into my driveway, and we both get out of the car.
"Thank you for letting me stay the weekend, Brendon." This is the most timid I've been since we met.
"It was my pleasure. I'll see you tomorrow, won't I?" Regardless of our wildly uncomfortable sexually fueled night and morning, I think we are still on moderately good terms. I Thank God.
As I open the front door, the phone begins to ring. What a strange coincidence. I pick up and there is a very excessive amount of yelling coming from the speaker.
"GRACE WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN I HAVE BEEN CALLING YOU EVERY HOUR OF THE PAST TWO DAYS WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN YOUR FATHER AND I WERE SO WORRIED ARE YOU OKAY WHAT'S GOING ON WE HEARD ABOUT THE STORM ARE YOU-" And more shouting of that nature. I told them I spent the weekend with Conner. Luckily, they hadn't called Conner, but they had called Dawn.
"We spoke to Dawn. She said she hadn't heard from you either. Why weren't you answering your phone?" Confused, I check my phone, to see that it is in fact out of battery. I didn't even notice. It must have been dead since Friday night.
"Sorry my phone was dead and Conner's charger broke." I'm going to hell. After more lame excuses for why I wasn't checking my phone, or I wasn't home, or I wasn't checking my e-mails, my sweet, concerned mother hangs up the phone.
I flop onto my own sofa now. A fresh change. I open up my laptop while my phone is charging and check my social media. All my feeds are full of shit. Just full of people pretending to be themselves. Their profiles are digital montages of the most eye-catching and entertaining parts of their lives and everybody's buying it. It's a competition. Who is the most fulfilled? Or who is the most depressed in need of love and attention? Who cares? Not me.
My phone starts up and I hear a never-ending chain of chimes. I look down and there are about eight thousand messages from my group chat. Most of them are about the storm, but the last message that I receive is asking where I have been. I'm usually pretty active in the group chat, so my absence was noticeable.
Dawn: where the fuck is grace tho i tried to message her to tell her the sleepover was cancelled on friday and she hasnt even messaged back
Jackson: idk actually havent heard from her
Conner: probs been sleeping this whole time hahaha
That's a fair assumption, Conner.
Jackson: no but really where is she
Ruby: i havent heard from her since friday
Dawn: hold on ill call her
Sure enough, my phone begins to ring.
"Hello?" I pick up after barely one ring.
"Grace, where the fuck have you been all weekend?"
"Um, home." I can't afford to throw Brendon under the bus, even though nothing really happened. The risk is there, and that's all that matters.
"You're a liar, Grace. Where have you been?" Shit.
"I just turned everything off. I wanted to enjoy the storm in my own company." That should do it.
"Uh, alright then. You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." We continue with a little bit of small talk, chatting about her shitty weekend with her relatives and their temporary partners all trapped in a house together for the entire weekend. At this point, I don't even really care. I just keep thinking about my own eventful weekend. A brief moment, the most exciting part of my life, unshared.
"See you tomorrow then?"
"Yep, see you then." Our conversation finally ends. The sun has already set. I have never been more keen on sleeping in my own bed.