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When a devastating injury threatens the career of Terence Tiles, the superstar goalie for the Seattle Kraken, the foundation of the life he meticulously built over eight years crumbles. Overwhelmed, he retreats from...
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As I wake up to find her leg draped over my torso and her face buried in my neck, I can't help but wonder if I've become a human pillow overnight. Sure, it's a Monday, and the impending doom of responsibilities looms over us like a dark cloud, but hey, at least I've got some prime real estate for a leg rest.
I hold onto her like a koala clinging to a eucalyptus tree, partly out of affection, partly out of fear that she might slip away and disappear into the abyss of adulting. I mean, she's probably got a to-do list longer than a CVS receipt, and here I am, contemplating the physics of how many more minutes I can snooze before she inevitably wakes up and threatens to smother me with a pillow for keeping her up all night.
But you know what? That's okay. Because in this moment, tangled up in each other's limbs like a pair of drunken octopuses, I realize that sometimes, just sometimes, Monday mornings aren't so bad after all. As long as I can dodge her wrath for a little while longer, that is.
As she mutters some incomprehensible gibberish in her sleep, it's all I can do to stifle a snort of laughter. I mean, seriously, who knew dreams came with their own language? But then again, she's always been full of surprises.
Taking a moment to admire her, with her unruly curls creating a halo around her head and her rich ebony skin against mine, I can't help but feel a pang of guilt. It's Monday morning, for heaven's sake, and here we are, tangled up in each other like a pair of clueless pretzels.
I know I should wake her. I mean, someone's gotta be the responsible adult here, right? But just as I muster the courage to disturb her slumber, I hear it—the unmistakable sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Oh no. That can only mean one thing.
Cue the impending doom music, because here comes the wrath of Monday, knocking on our door like a persistent salesman selling guilt trips and existential crises. And just like that, any hopes of prolonging our morning cocoon are dashed faster than a cheetah chasing its morning espresso. Well, folks, looks like it's time to face the music, or in this case, the inevitable consequences of our nocturnal escapades. Wish me luck.
Holy shit—Nick????
I throw off the covers in a split second.
“Ivy.” I whisper as I shake her awake. She doesn't budge the first few seconds, but when she does, she wakes up with a frustrated groan. I'm sorry, Darling.
“What the hell?” She mutters as her eyes open slowly and I toss my shirt at her.
“Nick, Nick's visiting his house.”
“Bloody fucker.” And that's all it takes for her to shoot out of the bed and begin fumbling with my shirt. We are screwed. I am screwed. Bad enough that I haven't spoken to Nick, my best friend in months and I chased him away when he tried to be there for me, and now he's probably going to walk in on a sight like this? I can't imagine how he'd feel.
