I WASN’T A hundred percent confident I wasn’t going to throw up all over the table.
After finally falling asleep at two thirty with a wicked case of the bed spins, I’d awoken at six to the world’s nastiest headache and an even more wicked hangover. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I remembered from college that greasy breakfast food usually helped.
So I’d gulped down four Motrin and went straight to the continental breakfast.
But now, staring down at the bacon, eggs, and country potatoes, I couldn’t be sure the cholesterol gorge would stay down.
My phone buzzed as I looked at the morning news show the hotel had selected as breakfast viewing. I pulled out my phone.
Max: You are a terrible human for forcing me to do the double shot and now I shall perish from this hangover. THE worst.
That actually made me smile in spite of my queasiness. I texted: I have Motrin if you want some.
Max: Okay so now I’ll have to forgive you. What room are you in?
That made me think of last night’s stairwell make-out session and my begging him to have sex with me. Thank God the details were fuzzy or I would expire from the embarrassing fact that I’d offered up my supply of condoms and he’d given me a no, thank you.
The fact that he was hungover, too, made me feel better.
I texted: I’m actually down at the continental breakfast.
Max: Greasy food—great idea. On my way.
I don’t know what I expected, but when Max finally appeared, he looked like shit. He was wearing a T-shirt, basketball shorts, flip-flops, and a head full of tousled hair. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes were bloodshot, and when he sat down across from me, I swear to God I could still smell the whiskey.
“Hey there, sunshine.”
He gave me a look. “Fuck right off, assbag.”
“Wow,” I laughed, feeling better just looking at poor, pathetic Max. “Some people are very unpleasant in the morning.”
“Motrin, please,” he barked, looking at my heaping plate like it offended him.
“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “Well, it’s not down here, it’s in my room.”
He sighed and whined at the same time, sounding like a child.
“Here.” I slid my key card over to him, trying not to smile. “It’s on the bathroom counter, room 1213.”
“I’m not going into your room without you.”
“Why not?” I asked, scooping some scrambled eggs onto my fork and hoping for the best.
“It just feels weird. I’ll wait until you’re done.”
“You look like being in the presence of food is going to make you sick.”
“I’m fine,” he said, then added, “but stop smiling like this is hilarious.”
“Okay.”
His eyebrows went down. “And don’t say okay like I’m a child who needs to be humored.”
“Okay.”
He growled, and I did laugh then, which made him flip me off while at the same time sliding into a somewhat amused near grin.
I wolfed down the food—God, it was exactly what I needed—and then we took the elevator up to my room. Once in the room, I went into the bathroom to grab the Motrin out of my toiletry bag, and when I came out, Max was lying on the bed.
One arm over his eyes, the other spread wide.
“You kind of look like you’re dabbing,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed with a plastic cup of water and four tablets in my hand.
“Totally what I was going for,” he said, his voice muffled as if he was already halfway asleep.
“Sit up and take these.”
He dropped his arm from his face, groaned, and then sat up.
He looked at me while he popped the Motrin into his mouth and drank the water.
“Good boy,” I said, taking the empty cup from his hand and setting it on the bedside table.
“We should second sleep,” he said, flopping back onto the bed.
“What?”
“Second sleep. Like college. C’mere and do it with me.”
I crossed my arms. “Explain, please.”
He rolled onto his side and opened his eyes.
Barely.
“I used to wake up with a hangover, go get donuts, eat donuts, then go back to bed for another hour.”
“Second sleep,” I said, nodding my head, thinking he was churlishly adorable when hungover.
“I can’t explain it,” he murmured, eyes closing, “but it’s the best nap you’ll ever have.”
“I am tired,” I said, feeling better than I had when I’d woken up but not great.
He scooted over to the left side of the bed and smacked the right side pillow with his hand. “Hop in.”
I wanted to giggle as I ditched my shoes and crawled into bed. “Hey, Siri. Set a timer for one hour.”
“Good girl,” Max said in a deep, sleepy voice, rolling onto his side so he was facing away from me, and I ignored all the things that him saying those words did to my body as I closed my eyes.
And proceeded to fall sound asleep.
I didn’t wake up until my watch buzzed—dear Lord, when was the last time I’d slept for an uninterrupted hour?—and it was then that I felt his arms around me.
I opened my eyes to discover we were spooning.
Historically, I wasn’t a snuggler. In my opinion, an adult couple needed a king-size bed so they could each sleep without having to touch the other. Sex was sex, and sleep was sleep—the two didn’t need to intersect.
But lying there, with Max holding me like I was his teddy bear, was very nice.
It was probably because it was Max—someone that I knew wasn’t trying to be romantic; that’s probably why I liked it.
But I closed my eyes and let myself enjoy it for a few more moments, memorizing the weight of his arms and the feel of his warm breath on the side of my neck as he slept soundly. It was nothing, just a friendly nap, but I didn’t want to forget the way it felt.
I carefully slid out from under his arms, and Max was obviously exhausted, because when I popped up on the side of the bed and looked down at him, he was still sound asleep.
His face was soft and sweet—boyish, even—as he dozed, and something about it made my heart pinch in my chest. I grabbed my phone and took a photo to use against him later.
But when I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I looked at the photo and, for some reason, didn’t want him to know about it.
I kind of just wanted to save it.
For me.
