PK / PETER KAVINSKY

21.

As predicted, the next morning I woke up dehydrated, exhausted and had quite possibly the worst headache known to mankind. Most of my hair had escaped the low ponytail I'd hastened to tie before going to bed the previous night and more closely resembled a bird's nest. In fact, on second thoughts, even a bird would have to have pretty low standards to want to nest in my hair in its current state. 

What I had not predicted, however, was how much I would remember of the previous night.

With a groan of second-hand embarrassment, I buried my face into my pillow as fragmented images from the party scorched themselves into my mind. Gabe about to throw me in the pool, Gen slinking out of the room with Peter following shortly after her, A LOT OF PINK GIN AND LEMONADE. 

Oh God.

I covered my face entirely with the white fabric of the pillow as one particular memory flooded back in. I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that would do something to remove it from my brain. Nope. Nada. Unfortunately, the fact remained: I had definitely made out with Peter Kavinsky. Whilst straddling him. In the driver's seat of his truck.

Oh my fucking God.

I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling, wallowing in self-pity. Part of me wanted to laugh at how ridiculous the situation was, the other part of me wanted to go and grab an aspirin and have a good cry. 

What I ended up doing was something different entirely. The bird's nest, aka my hair (which smelt strangely of alcohol), flopped down in front of my face as I fumbled blindly under the bed trying to retrieve my phone from where I'd tossed it last night. I did not have the sufficient abs to lift myself seamlessly back up from where I was hanging off the side of my bed, so subduedly let myself droop towards the floor as I tried to turn my phone on. Completely out of battery. Classic.

Torn between actually having to get out of bed (cold) or just staying where I was (warm), I eventually summoned the self-motivation to stumble over to my charger and plug my phone in, then hurried back to the safety of my duvet.

I swigged back some water in a desperate attempt to rid myself of the pounding headache and waves of nausea I was enjoying and mulled over the best way to deal with the consequences of my actions last night. 

Option 1: text Peter and confront him about what happened (awkward)

Option 2: tell Peter that I was drunk and thought he was someone else (obviously a lie)

Option 3: pretend that it had never happened and hope Peter doesn't bring it up (risky)

After much thought, I came to the conclusion that there was no 'best way' and that whatever I eventually chose to do was going to result in extreme amounts of humiliation. Brilliant. Just what I had been hoping for.

I had been trying to avoid thinking about what all this meant. About what exactly I felt for Peter and, more importantly, what exactly Peter felt for me. There was also the small fact that Peter, unlike me, had not had bucket-loads to drink last night, which meant that he had been 100% sober when the whole truck shenanigans went down. 

I wrapped myself tightly in the duvet and bit my lip whilst deliberating what to do. 

A soft knock at the door interrupted my deep contemplation (who am I kidding, I'd been going round in circles for about a solid 10 minutes.)

"Hey honey, you up?" My mom whispered in hushed tones through a crack in the door.

"Yeah, I'm up." I replied as cheerfully as I could manage, not wanting the hangover to be too easy to spot.

Mom smiled knowingly,

"Jamie, it's nearly midday. I think it's a little late to be giving me the 'oh I only had a cider' treatment."