sign {h.s.}

chapter eleven

"YOU'RE KIDDING ME, right?" I turn to look at Harry with dangerously hopeful eyes as I try to determined whether or not this is all his version of a practical joke.

Similar to a deer in headlights, his eyes are wide as he stares at me. Clearly, he hadn't expected my reaction to be so adverse, and I can tell that he is now contemplating his choice to tell me at all. Certainly, he is much rather wishing that he just kept his mouth shut. That alone is enough to tell me that his words had been truthful—as much as I would like to pretend that they aren't.

"Oh, my God," I breathe out, one hand moving to cover my mouth, unsure as to anything else to do. "I don't remember that at all." My voice comes out quiet and shamed. There is something terrifying about the blackness in my memory. Pieces are coming together, but slowly. His odd behavior from the morning makes sense and, much as I hate to admit it, so does his temper tantrum with Lola from earlier.

Behind me, a car beeps and reminds me that I stepped on my breaks in the middle of the road. Still idling in the middle of the road, I have just enough presence of mind to cause me to flick on my directional and pull onto the shoulder. "Cassidy?" Harry asks, his voice considerate and low. He's looking at me in a gentle sort of way, his lips pursed as he stares at me with cautious eyes. "You really don't remember?"

"No," I emphasize, cupping my face in my hands before running them through my hair.

As though this dialogue will prompt me to remember something, I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking back to the night of the party. There are blanks in the evening, but none had seemed cause for concern. I'd ended up back in my bed at the end of the night completely safe and sound. In the morning, there was only a raging hangover. Everything seemed fine.

He lets out a long sigh. If I were less distraught by the presentation of this news, I might try to figure out whether he is upset by this information—whether he had wanted me to remember. The thought gets shoved to the back of my brain as I continue trying to sift through the pieces of information that I do have as a means of illuminating the information that I don't. "Why don't you take me back to my apartment?" He offers, raising a hopeful brow as he looks at me. "We can talk there?" The proposition is gentler; kinder.

Rationally, I know that this is the considerate thing of him to offer. Still in the middle of the road and required to get him home, talking at his place seems to be our safest bet. Though, in something close to overdrive with my heart racing at a mile a minute, the last thing that I want is to find myself alone in his apartment with him. That's his territory. "No," I ardently deny, shaking my head dramatically, "what if you... how do I know you won't try to—to... to kiss me again?" Even just speaking the words feels wrong.

Exasperated, he throws his hands in the air. "Hai familiarità con il sesso in auto?" There's something pointed in his gaze and I know that he has said something dirty, but I can't bear it. [Italian: Are you familiar with car sex?]

"Not allowed," I shake my head. I've asserted myself rather boldly, in a way that I don't typically find myself doing. Especially not with him. "Right now, you speak to me in English. I don't care if it takes you some extra time to respond. This is a serious conversation to me, and I need you to treat it with respect." Finding out that I had kissed him in a drunken state is scary. There is a fear running through my body that is cold as ice as I try to piece together the events from last night. More than anything else, this information makes me feel helpless.

I'm surprised when he bows his head. "I said: 'are you familiar with car sex?'"

The bluntness of his tone shocks me. "Unbelievable," I bitterly laugh, my hands clenching against the steering wheel. Impossibly white, I am aware that I am holding on too tightly but I have no intention of letting go. The feeling is amongst the only things keeping me present in this moment.