One Last Thing

f i v e

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    WHEN I WAKE the next morning, it's with the sun in my eye and a crick in my neck.

    I groan at the full-scale brightness of the room and roll over to shield myself off from the incessant light pouring through the window. When that doesn't work, I go to pull my blankets over my head, but I stop short when my fingers curl around nothing.

    I blink.

    My eyes peel open to a baby blue room. F1 racing posters cover the walls and the monitor next to a small desk hums, the wallpaper of a desktop flashing images of Patrick Mahomes.

    I look down, confused for a moment when I realize I'm still in my jeans and sweater from yesterday, and that I'm not in my own bed or room, but in Tucker's and on his floor.

    That confusion only lasts for a split second, however, before last night comes crashing over me: Tucker's game. Lahey's party. Taking Everett home. Everett in my room. Everett's hand on my cheek.

    My stomach twists.

    I scramble off the pillow and reach for my phone, clicking it on. The time 11:37 AM glares back at me. I run my fingers through my hair and glance at the bed beside me.

    Tucker is still asleep and on his side, his bedhead peeking out from the covers and his shoulders falling in steady breaths. I get up and open the door as slowly as I can before shutting it behind me with a soft click.

    The sound of pots and pans clinking together from the kitchen reaches my ears when I step into the hallway, which means Mom must be making breakfast. I bite the inside of my cheek. I know I'm going to have to explain everything to her, and I know she's not going to be happy when she finds out Everett got drunk last night and had to sleep over. She'll probably tell Everett's Mom before she rips me a new one for taking Tucker to a party full of underage drinking.

    My hands turn clammy at the thought, but I know I have to face up to it, and I might as well get it over with and drag Everett with me to apologize and maybe earn back some brownie points.

    So I only let myself hesitate for a second before I twist the doorknob to my own room and shove it open, words ready on my lips.

    Only to find that the room is empty. Everett is gone.

    A mixture of relief—and to my dismay—disappointment settles in my gut. But that quickly fades into bewilderment as I take in the sight in front of me. My bed is made. The cup of water is gone, the windows are open again the way I always make sure they are in the mornings.

    And my broken fairy lights—which have only ever worked on one side—are fixed.

    I move through the room, stopping at my bed when I notice different pillow cases. I reach down and peel back the blanket, and the fresh smell of linen hits my nose. Sure enough, the sheets have been changed from a pastel pink into a milky white.

    I sigh, running a hand over my face. Is this his way of saying thank you? By changing my bedsheets and fixing my lights and then leaving without a word?

    Or is this an apology?

    I try not to think too hard about any of it as I fix the blanket back into place and go to my drawer, pulling out a pair of undergarments, plaid PJ shorts and a faded oversized band shirt.

    I'd planned on dragging Everett out of bed and confronting my Mom right away—crusted mascara and yesterday's clothes and all—but since I don't have to do that anymore I take my time washing up. I brush my teeth. I clean off my makeup. I take a hot shower and change into new clothes. I comb through my hair, and by the time I leave the bathroom I'm humming to myself in content, fully lathered in oils and scented lotion.