I wake with a start from a dream that I've already forgotten, gasping for breath and unsure of where I am. It takes several seconds for me to calm down and realize that I am safe, with Michael's arms wrapped around me like a steel cage in his childhood bedroom. He is snoring lightly in my ear as I try to return my heart rate to normal, helping to restore my inner peace.
I take several deep breaths before realizing that my throat is painfully dry, probably a side effect of the wine I drank tonight. Desperate for some relief, I slide easily out of Michael's arms and stand to my feet. The room doesn't spin, and I feel my equilibrium returning to normal, the only other indication of my intoxication being the light headache that pounds slightly every time I take a step.
As quietly as I can manage, I slink to the door. I walk in the direction of the main hall, memorizing the turns that I took so that I will be able to get back. The house is deadly silent, and I when I make it to the kitchen, the light up clock reads 3:34 AM. I flick one of many switches on the wall, earning a flickering bulb near the refrigerator. Momentarily, I get the feeling that I'm not supposed to be here, but I shake it off. How many times was I told today that I am welcome in this house?
I cross to the fridge and open one of the colossal doors, the cool air rushing out and enveloping me in a chilly comfort. I reach for one of at least thirty full plastic bottles of water, twisting the cap and letting the cold liquid soothe my scratchy throat. I take a seat on a barstool not unlike the one in my own kitchen, sipping the cold water and trying to relax the rest of my muscles.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps behind me and I nearly panic. It takes me a moment of sheer terror to realize that I am not doing anything wrong, nor am I somewhere I am not supposed to be. Still, it won't make a late night run-in with any of Michael's family members any less awkward. I just hope it's not-
Mr. Clifford walks into the kitchen before I can even finish the thought.
"Katherine," he says, surprised, halting in his movements.
"Um, hi," I laugh awkwardly. I am in an oversized t-shirt that clearly belongs to Michael. Mercifully it covers far enough down my legs to conceal the fact that I am not wearing shorts underneath, but I don't stand up just in case.
"I'm sorry to intrude," Mr. Clifford apologizes as he crosses to the fridge, looking highly uncomfortable.
"Oh... you're not. I mean, I'm sorry, I guess. This is your kitchen."
"It's not a problem, Katherine," he says warmly. He reaches for a water bottle of his own, and as he takes a long pull from it, I find that I am not even the slightest bit intimidated by him in this moment. I mean, it's awkward as hell, but he is in shorts and his own t-shirt, looking like he too just rolled out of bed at this indecent hour. "Couldn't sleep?" He asks, pulling me back into the moment. I just shake my head, unable to think of appropriate words. "Me either," he sighs.
We are quiet for a moment, both sipping on our water bottles. Mine is dangerously close to being empty, and I have no idea what I'll do when that moment comes. Mr. Clifford breaks the silence once more.
"Katherine, would you mind... I know this is a bit of an odd request... odd timing, at that, but... would you mind giving me a moment to... explain myself?"
I lower the bottle from my lips, unsure of what to say. I just let my wide eyes convey my confusion and try to conceal my shaking hands. Mr. Clifford seems to pick up on my discomfort, and I see him cross the room subtly, putting more distance between us.
"It's just that... I know what Michael thinks of me right now, and what I'm sure he's told you... if he's even told you..." He runs his hands over his face, barely able to string together a coherent sentence. "Katherine, please, you just have to understand that I love my son."
