Jourdan Mathews has a secret, and she knows she needs to take this one to the grave.
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Her life was never complicated: a college student with a close family, good friends, and a plan for her future as a doctor. Had that night had never happened...
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There is a certain way for nothing to always sound like something. Especially in the morning. Here, there is a faint beeping, like the sound of a cement truck backing up. Birds chirping, somehow their calls are louder than anything else. An electric car engine, hums and whirrs, pausing at the stop sign just below the bedroom window; before driving up the hill in front of the house.
A woman talking on the phone—the jingle of her dog's collar mixing in with the crunch and scratch of her sneakers on the concrete. Roaring overhead signals the flight of a small plane.
Warmth. Golden morning rays flood the room, making it difficult to open my eyes and as I do, blinking several times, the quiet nothingness that fills the space around me is rudely interrupted.
"Good morning!"
I wince at the loud high-pitched voice which sounds to my right.
Fuck. I forgot she was here.
"Ryder?" She questions me when I don't respond. And I never want to, but I'm still the idiot who let her come over last night, so I man up.
"What?" I turn my head slightly, lifting myself up on the backs of my elbows, squinting down at her form through the bright lines of light which filled my room. Her body is cloaked in the thin top sheet of my bed, the soft grey fabric falling into each bend and curve.
"I said good morning." She snaps, sitting up sharply and making me flinch.
"God damn." I mutter, throwing the covers off me and sliding my feet over the edge of the King-sized mattress. I hoist myself up, gazing at the poster on my bedroom wall, praying to each one of The Beatles who were staring back at me that I would find an easy way out of this. This poster was kind-of funny—it wasn't mine. One of the kids who'd rented this house last year left it up. It's a mishmash of pastel colors and fuzzy lines that remind me of a bad acid trip.
Ringo's expression is contorted, making him look both annoyed and smug. It was like he knew just how foolish I'd been in allowing Penelope Braddish back into my bed after yet a fourth year of vowing to never see her again.
I stand, pulling my t-shirt back over my head and sliding my phone in my sweatpants pocket.
"I'm busy today, it's the first day of classes." I mutter, glancing over my shoulder and trying not to visibly cringe. She's glaring at me with a vengeance that has me regretting many things. Her tongue pushes between her too-white teeth, making a hissing noise as she shakes her head at me.
"You're always busy." She proclaims.
It's true though, I'm a busy guy. This morning, for example, I do have class in a couple hours, and then training at the rec center, but she wouldn't care. Just like she doesn't care each time I explain why nothing else can happen between us.
