Dehydration.
Fucking dehydration.
Not alcohol poisoning, not a spiked drink, not even an inconvenient but kind of cool broken hand. Dehydration is what took me out.
Guess when they say not to mix your meds with alcohol, they really mean it.
I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so consumed with feeling like complete and utter shit.
The hospital didn’t even admit me. I woke up in the ER, hooked up to a banana bag. Less than an hour later, they sent me on my way with nothing more than a few disapproving glances. Tail between my legs, I dragged my ass back to Owen’s place to pass out because I looked like death incarnate and if my mom saw me, she’d lose her mind. After barricading myself in the spare room and peeling off my clothes, I pretty much fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow.
God knows how many hours later, a quiet voice tries to coax me awake. My brain is too melted to pinpoint it; not even hospital-grade fluids could prevent the massive hangover I feel brewing in my temples. Groaning, I roll away from who I’m assuming is Owen and shove my head under the pillow in an attempt to drown out him calling my name.
Soft laughter and warm breath tickle my bare shoulder. “Lu, wake up.”
“Fuck off,” I grumble into mattress, wincing at my croaky voice. I reach around to slap Owen away, only for my hand to get caught between two calloused ones.
“Wake up, sweetheart.”
I stiffen as the only cutesy pet name I can stand cracks through my hazy, sleepy mind and this time, it’s not Owen saying it.
Shifting towards the voice, I crack an eyelid, frowning at the unexpectedly familiar face looming over me. Wondering if I’m still plastered. “What the fuck?”
Looking about as tired as I feel, clad in a pair of crumpled sweats and an equally wrinkled hoodie, Jackson is perched on the edge of the bed. Holding my hand. Stroking my hair.
I’m hallucinating. I’m still completely, incoherently drunk, and I’m hallucinating. That’s the only explanation because Jackson is in California with his family, not in New York with me.
Forcing my bleary eyes wide open, I blink in confusion. Each time, I expect him to disappear.
He doesn’t.
“What the fuck?” I repeat because they’re the only words coming to mind right now. Maybe I’m still asleep. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a vivid dream about Jackson.
But then he chuckles, low and deep and very, very real, and it hits me that Jackson is here.
In New York.
In Owen’s spare bedroom.
Despite my throbbing head and the fact that all I want to do is drag Jackson further into bed and curl into his side, I get the overwhelming urge to explain. Explain what happened tonight, how I ended up here. And find out why and how the hell he’s here.
When I open my mouth to do just that, though, I’m cut off by a quick shake of his head. Shoving me aside gently, Possibly Fake Jackson slips beneath the covers. When he stretches an arm out towards me, I take his cue, wasting no time attaching myself to his side, burying my head in the crook of his neck, hooking a leg around his, pressing myself as close as humanly possible. Both arms hugging me tight, Feels Real Jackson rubs soothing motions down the length of me, from the curve of my neck along my thigh, and the continuous, monotonous movements do a world of good in lulling me back to sleep.
I fight it off, though, wanting to savor this confusing, but so fucking needed, moment. Two days and I missed him a pathetic amount. I missed the affection, the companionship, but mostly I just missed him. And he couldn’t have magically appeared at a better time.
Inhaling deeply, I swear my headache eases as my lungs fill with that familiar spring-like scent. Propping my chin on his chest, I trace the contours of his face with my eyes, noting the dark circles beneath his closed eyes and his even messier than usual hair.
As though he feels my gaze on his face, his eyes flutter open, a lazy smile already tugging on his lips. “You’re staring.”
“You’re in New York.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Figured you could use a hug,” is his confusing, entirely too-simple response. When I frown, he adds with a sigh, “Owen called.”
That’s… interesting. Very, very interesting.
And concerning.
“What did he tell you?”
“Not much.” Jackson accompanies what is probably a lie with a kiss dropped to my forehead. “Just that you had a bad night.”
“You flew across the country because I had a bad night?”
“I flew across the country because I freaked the fuck out when you weren’t responding and then some guy called me in the middle of the night and said you were in the hospital.”
An embarrassed wince crumples my face. Making him worry for no good reason is bad enough. Inspiring him to jump on a plane in the middle of the night and fly for five-and-a-half hours to a whole different time zone for no good reason?
Mortifying.
Jackson smoothes out the wrinkles marring my forehead, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “You would’ve done the same.”
Except I wouldn’t have. The thought never would’ve crossed my mind. Just another reason why Jackson is infinitely a better person than I am, and another reason why I don’t deserve the sweet man lying beside me.
“What about your sisters?” God, they probably hate me. All they had with their brother was a measly weekend and I effectively stole it away.
Fingers graze my upper back, cupping the nape of my neck and squeezing comfortingly.“They didn’t need me. You did.”
A lump forms in my throat, accompanied by an annoying, unexpected dampness in my eyes. “Stop being so sweet.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m hungover and it makes me want to cry.”
Laughter washes over me, heartier this time. That big, booming one that I feel in my bones, in my stomach, in my chest, and kind of makes me want to cry even more. Swallowing hard, I discreetly swipe at my eyes and attempt to cover up my embarrassing sniffling with a cough. Still, my whispered ‘thank you’ comes out entirely too wobbly for my liking.
“I told you,” Jackson says gently. “You can always call me. If you need me, I’m there. And if your ex fuck buddy calls me, I’ll be there a lot quicker.”
He’s joking, I can hear it, but nevertheless, I find myself promising, “Nothing happened.”
“I know.” There’s nothing but pure conviction in his voice. “I trust you.”
Three simple words yet they carry such profound weight.
Especially after last night.
Even in my drunken haze, the venom Bea and Eva spit my way still consumed my thoughts. They filled me with doubt, made me feel insecure, until I convinced myself that Jackson would agree with everything they were saying.
Once again, I should’ve known better.
“Are we gonna talk about what happened last night?”
Jackson’s careful but direct question has my stomach heaving. Lower the steaming mug of tea in my hand to the bedside table, I twist a piece of still-damp hair around my finger nervously. “Do we have to?”
His mouth says ‘no’ but his eyes say ‘spill it.’
I avert my gaze to the window, momentarily distracting myself with the stellar view Jackson’s hotel room has. I was pretty ecstatic when he revealed he’s only flying home tomorrow, the same as me, so we get to spend the day together. Not that we’re doing much besides lazing around, eating, and sleeping.
A lot of the latter. In a bed so comfortable, there’s no way it’s not expensive.
This entire hotel reeks of money. All polished marble and big, fancy plants and ostentatious mirrors. I’ve never felt so out of place than when Jackson ushered me through the lobby, my stunning attire of last night’s outfit with Jackson’s hoodie thrown over the top and a bird’s nest-style bun piled on top of my head attracting more than one disapproving look.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” I’d whispered, hugging myself tightly when the receptionist’s unimpressed gaze fell on me.
Jackson just gave me a brief nod and a reassuring smile before turning to the bitchy receptionist with that smile turned up to megawatt status. He looked almost as run-down and tired as me, just as messy and raggedy, yet somehow, he fit in. All charm and confidence and control. Honestly, his whole demeanor was hot as fuck. I would’ve jumped him the second we found privacy if I wasn’t well aware of my desperate need for a shower. And a toothbrush.
Post-room shower, wrapped in an impossibly fluffy bathrobe, and revived by a gloriously greasy room-service breakfast, I wanted to jump him too. But of course, he wants to talk about last night.
Typical.
Pulling the comforter right up to my chin, I make my best attempt at looking pathetic—not exactly a hard feat, considering my incredibly hungover state—and bat my lashes at the man laying beside me. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” Jackson says, and I hate him for it. I hate his gentle understanding and his inability to push boundaries and his easy concession because even though it’s not his intention—maybe especially because it’s not his intention—I feel guilty. Hiding things from him makes me feel shitty because he’s so fucking open.
Which is why, with a huff, I mutter, “The girls said some stuff.”
I’ve mentioned Eva and Bea before, so it’s unsurprising when his face screws up. “What stuff?”
I relay every dig they hit me with. All their little, demeaning comments that chipped away at my confidence, my common sense. Reliving the whole ordeal is no less humiliating than actually experiencing it; I can’t even look at Jackson.
I don’t need to, though, to hear him scoff. “They’re full of shit.”
Jackson does not like my unconvinced shrug one bit. Two fingers lift my chin, lifting my gaze until it meets his. “They are full of shit,” he repeats, enunciating each word clearly and slowly. “I don’t care what label we put on it, I’m yours, you’re mine, that’s it.”
Yours. Mine. Two little words with so much weight.
“Lu,” he breathes my name softly, his lips so close the word brushes over my own. “I don’t know how to make it any clearer that there is no one else I want. I wanted you the first time I saw you in the diner, smiling like butter wouldn’t melt. I wanted you when you spilled a drink on me and vomited your guts up yet still looked at me with nothing but confidence. I sure as fuck wanted you when I kissed you for the first time.“ A featherlight touch brushes my lips, barely even a kiss yet it still steals my breath away. “And I especially want you right now.”
“You got a thing for hungover blondes?”
“Nah.” His nose brushes mine as he shakes his head. “It’s the robe.”
I snort and roll my eyes, hoping I play off how fucking ooey gooey his words make me feel even if his knowing smile suggests otherwise.
It fades slightly when, after raking his gaze over me in that way that makes me fidget, his expression sobers. “Luna, I really fucking like you.”
Reigning in a grin, I look away because I can’t look at him when he’s looking at me like that. “You’re awfully romantic today.”
“I think you’re supposed to be romantic when you’re trying to ask someone to be your girlfriend.”
My fidgeting halts, my gaze flying to his. Words get stuck in my throat, choking me momentarily, but I manage to croak out, “What?”
This time, Jackson’s smile is one of utter calm, mimicked in his voice. “I know you wanted to go slow. I know this scares you. But I’m gonna ask you anyway. And if you say no, that’s okay. Like I said, labels don’t mean shit.”
I hate that I panic.
I hate that instead of kissing the life out of him, instinct drives me to scoot off his lap and towards the edge of the bed, fleeing like a fucking startled animal.
I hate that every cell in my body screams at me to run out the door, down the hall, out of this fucking fancy hotel that he’s paying God knows how much for because he flew five hours to fucking cuddle.
But then the ring on Jackson’s pinky glints in a way that catches my eye. I catch sight of one of my scrunchies around his wrist; he says he steals them because they’re better for his hair, but when he was sleepy and sweet and a little drunk once he told me it’s because he likes how they smell. Vanilla, or something. I spot the remnants of the pink nail polish still staining his fingernails from last week when I had a bad night and just needed something to do.
Sucking in a breath, I take a moment and just fucking think for a second.
I’m not sure anymore that the little voice telling me to run is instinct. I think it’s a habit. Self-preservation, maybe. The ‘leave first before they leave you’ mentality I’ve carried around for years.
Jackson doesn’t move a muscle. He sits there, watching me calmly, waiting patiently, not an ounce of pressure or coercion, and looking at him, I know I don’t want that instinct, or whatever it is, anymore.
I just want him.
Swallowing hard, I summon every ounce of strength I possess. “Go on, then.”
Two dark brows shoot up.
“Ask me.”
The answering smile I get is nothing short of fucking wonderful. Hands settling on my hips, he drags me back onto his lap until our chests are flush, my arms instinctively going around his neck as he leans his forehead against mine. “You wanna be my girlfriend, Lu?”
A part of me acknowledges how cringy this is. How this would have been a past me’s nightmare. But a bigger part of me, a better part, is so happy that it drowns out that smaller part. So, I let my lips tip up in a smile that rivals his, and I let myself be ditzy and swirly, and I let myself bask in the happiness spilling out of him and overwhelming me.
“Fuck yeah.”
