Conor

The morning after the party, I wake up in an unfamiliar bedroom.

The ghost of a headache settles behind my eyes as I sit up, squinting at the sunlight flooding into the room. Perplexed, I find my focus fixed on the window, draped with thin, cream-colored curtains.

Pulling my knees up to my chest, I glance around the rest of the place, looking for clues as to just where I am.

The walls are painted a neutral off-white. One or two pictures hang in white frames, though I can't exactly tell what's inside them from here. Other than that, there's nothing particularly telling about it.

I breathe a sigh, beginning to feel the keen ache of a hangover spread throughout my body as the blanket of sleep begins to fade away.

Judging by the light, I don't think that it's too terribly late. Maybe it would make me feel better to just sleep for a little while longer.

Yeah, I decide. That sounds like a good idea.

I stretch my sore limbs before collapsing back against the soft pillow behind my head. Pulling the covers up to my chin, I turn over on my side. I'm just about to close my eyes when I identify the peculiar shape lying beside me.

A body.

My already-ailing stomach turns as I take note of the pale hair strewn out across the pillow next to mine.

Holy shit.

It's Summer.

Just like that, I'm wide awake, sitting back up. Head spinning, I attempt to mentally recount the events of last night.

I remember the crowd in the living room, Summer and Julie's limbs all tangled. I remember the joint in my hand, the clear night sky. I remember Summer joining me in the backyard, wrapping her lips around the joint so easily, handing me an orange as a truce.

The memories stop at the orange.

I sit frozen, an unfamiliar bedspread wrapped around me, feeling nauseous. Summer's back rises and falls with her steady breathing as she sleeps, blissfully unaware of the panic overtaking me.

Have I really managed to do the same regrettable thing with her as I do with every other girl?

Did I really capture her sympathy, get blackout drunk, then get into her pants without even remembering it?

Shame steadily eating away at me, I throw the covers aside.

It's official: I've fucked it all up.

I pause just long enough to look at her as I swing my legs over the bed and pat the floor in search of my shoes, beginning the first steps to forgetting that any of this ever happened.

She slept in her makeup, - there's a lipstick imprint on her arm, mascara smeared beneath her eyes. Her hair falls every which way around her, appearing to take on a mind of its own. Every now and then, a soft sound will pass her lips, - maybe real words, some parts of her dreams that I can't understand.

I can feel my heartbeat in my throat as I swallow.

She's a wreck, truly, but I can't look away.

Even in such an utterly imperfect state, it is all too easy for me to understand how she has served as a muse to so many other men.

Ashamed of myself, I force myself to turn back around.

My mind echoes the dread in the pit of my stomach.

You've ruined it. Whatever the two of you were supposed to have, you have most certainly overstepped the boundaries.

I lean over, tie one of my shoes, consider how I'll get out of here, wherever I am. Of course, I can't stay focused very long, - not when Summer shifts and sighs again, reminding me that I'm still here, with her.

Then I'm thinking of our boundaries again, - the ones that I could have only crossed if we had ever set any in the first place.

Drinking buddies. That is where I had drawn the line in our agreement.

Where she had drawn it was, in her words, at a date.

Much to both my disdain and amazement, the rolling nausea in the pit of my stomach lifts itself, transforming into the flip-flopping, fluttering feeling that makes me feel fifteen again.

Can you be drinking buddies with benefits? Or is the drinking itself the benefit?

Then I'm shaking my head, trying to clear my mind like an etch-a-sketch.

I can't do this.

Not now.

Not with her.

This girl, with her ruined makeup and bedhead and the sounds that she makes when she dreams, is absolutely out of my league.

There are so many other guys she could be spending her time with, - guys who actually socialize at parties, guys who could paint beautiful portraits of her, guys who are entertaining, even when they're sober.

Guys who know how to say the right things to her without floundering, actually earning her disarming, snaggle-toothed grin.

Guys who don't subsist off of whiskey, weed, and cocaine.

Guys who haven't been making themselves puke ever since they were kids.

None of those guys are me, so it's probably best that I move along now.

As much as it pains me, I make a promise to myself: if I've touched her once, - even if I can't recall it, - that will be the one and only time.

With that, I rise to my feet, deciding that it's time for me to go before I can second guess myself.

As soon as I stand, however, I hear a shuffling sound, followed by Summer's voice.

"Conor?"

She says my name, her voice all soft and sleep-tinged. I feel myself going weak in the knees before I can even turn around to look at her.

Knowing I've lost the fight, I do exactly that.

"Good morning," I manage weakly, trying not to focus on her too hard.

She's like the sun, burning bright, even in the smaller hours of the morning. She's lovely and vibrant, and it makes it hurt a bit to look at her.

She smiles at me, making herself all the more dazzling. "Morning."

She sits up, stretching her arms over her head. I'm tempted to look away as the blanket falls away from her body... only to reveal that she is still fully clothed.

Wait a second.

I look down, find that I, too, slept in my T-shirt and jeans. Once I am done feeling like a total dumbass, hope kicks in.

"Hey." I attempt to sound casual as I broach the subject, scratching at the back of my neck. "You and me, last night. We didn't, um..."

I pause, trying to think of the appropriate word to say.

Of course, no word seems right, so I simply leave her to pick up where I left off.

My face burns as I meet her eyes. "Did we?"

As soon as those last two words leave my mouth, she bursts into a fit of laughter.

"God, no!" she giggles. "You wish, Boy Wonder."

I don't reply, even as I find a smile coming to rest on my face, uninvited.

I wouldn't dare tell her that I kind of do wish, - only I'd like to remember it, if we ever did.

She straightens her spine, shaking the wrinkles out of her mussed shirt.

"You got pretty blitzed last night," she tells me as she starts to finger-comb her hair. "We ate that orange together, drank a little bit more. By the time we came back inside, we were both pretty far gone, but especially you. Julie said you could have her guest room, and I went to make sure you made it to bed okay. Then I ended up laying down and, well..." She holds out her arms, indicating the bedroom. "Here we are."

"Ah," I reply. "So neither of us drank and drove?"

"Nope." She stands and begins to make the bed back up. "Good thing, too. By the end of the night, I was feeling pretty foggy myself." She pauses in the midst of folding a sheet over. "In fact, I think I might be working on a hangover right now."

I chuckle, crossing my arms over my chest. "That makes two of us, then."

She steps back from the bed, a sympathetic grin surfacing on her face, and oh God, her eyes.

Even when she's just opened them, they are so very striking. It's beyond easy for me to get lost in that color, blue as anything.

Looking at her, I find myself thinking of the beach that I escaped to once a year as a child.

The sight of the Pacific Ocean both frightened and charmed me.

I lagged behind, holding onto my mother's hand as Matt and Justin ran straight into the waves without hesitation. Even with the benefit of inflatable flotation devices on both my arms, I stayed rooted to the sandy ground.

Even then, I knew that the sea was a complex beast.

It was exhilarating, of course, to have something so vast and immense laid before you, something that you could dip your toes into and suddenly play an infinitesimal part of its make-up. However, it also terrified me, with all of the mystery and unpredictability lying beneath its surface.

It was lovely, but, despite all the efforts of my mom and brothers, I couldn't quite bring myself to let my guard down and trust it.

It took me years to get rid of the inflatable floats for this reason alone.

Summer's voice pulls me out of my memories. "You know there's only one thing we can do now, right?" she asks.

I blink, finding that I'm no longer that boy on the beach. I'm standing in a stranger's spare bedroom instead, looking at a beautiful, dirty-faced girl whose eyes sparkle like water beneath sunlight. "What's that?" I reply.

A wonderful gap-toothed grin breaks out across her face. "We've gotta go get pancakes," she announces, turning to walk towards the door. "Come on."

Though my stomach churns at the mere mention of food, I can't resist following her.

🖤

Summer drives us out of the more uppity area that Julie lives in towards the run-down part of town. Smack dab in the middle of a convenience store and a garishly painted real estate office sits an all-night diner with a beaten up sign.

Summer pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant, smiling as she puts the car in park. "Perfect," she says. "Come on."

I follow her out of the car.

A middle-aged woman with a bad perm smiles at us as we walk through the door. She leads us to a booth by the window, handing us each a menu after we take our seats.

Once she leaves, Summer begins poring over her breakfast options. I take a cursory glance at the menu, then decide not to even bother.

All of it is chock full of fat, sugar, grease. None of those things are my friend, hungover or otherwise.

Finally, Summer flips her menu shut. "I think I'm gonna get the pancake special, with powdered sugar and whipped cream." She looks up at me. "What about you?"

"A coffee," I say.

She frowns. "That's all?"

"Yeah. I'm not feeling so great."

I see something flash in those dangerous bright blue eyes, - something gentle, despite its intensity.

Concern.

It makes me feel guilty, sending my head into spiralling questions of why on earth this girl might possibly care for me.

She breaks eye contact as she rummages for something under the table, face still set in concentration. After a moment, she comes back up with a white pill bottle and some small, plastic-wrapped thing.

"Here." She slides both objects across the table.

I look down, only to find a bottle of ibuprofen and a single serving pack of saltine crackers.

When I look back up at her, Summer motions towards the crackers, still wearing her concerned face. "Eat them," she urges.

Though my mind reminds me of the fact that I drank all of that alcohol last night without having eaten anything the day before, I shake my head. "I'm not hungry."

She rolls her eyes. "You don't have to be hungry," she says. "It's only three saltines, Conor. Eat them."

I examine her face. She doesn't wear the same resigned expression that most of my friends have now when they try to talk to me about anything, especially my eating habits. Our arrangement is fresh enough for her to only hold a look of determination, as if she doesn't doubt for a single moment that I just need a little coaxing, some moral support in the face of my idiosyncrasies.

Or maybe she just really pities you, that awful part of my mind chimes in. She must think you're a charity case.

My hands begin to shake in my lap as I consider what she might think is wrong with me.

Cancer. Some stomach condition. Heroin addiction. Cirrhosis of the liver.

Surely, she can't look at me and see through all the possibilities, the words that doctor offered my mom all those years ago popping into her mind immediately: eating disorder, not otherwise specified.

I look at her again, try to see beyond the skin. I think of how her entire livelihood comes from her own body. Panic takes me into its grasp again as I realize that she might actually not be too far off at all.

It's like what they always say: takes one to know one.

Wishing with every bit of me to take this thought away, I rip open the plastic and put a whole cracker in my mouth.

Summer's face lightens up as I chew. "Atta boy."

I don't say anything else as I finish that cracker, then eat the other two. Once every last one is gone, I crumple the plastic wrap into a ball, finding the nerve to look her in the eye again.

"Those were terribly stale."

She sighs, shaking her head. Pale blonde waves fall loose around her shoulders, stray strands of hair shining like white gold in the early morning sunlight. Once again, I find myself all too enamored with her imperfection.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," she chastises me. "I mean, do you want to feel better or not?"

I almost tell her that this is a loaded question, but then I realize that, to most people, it wouldn't be.

Most people do want to feel better when they feel shitty, for whatever reason that might be. Most people dislike misery.

As for me, - well, I stay here. Most of the time, it feels kind of like home.

I can't tell Summer any of this, of course. I know that she wouldn't get it.

As it turns out, I don't have to reply. The waitress returns to our table before I can say anything, notepad and pen in hand. "Are you guys ready?"

Summer nods. "I think so."

"Great." The waitress flips open her notepad. "And what'll it be?"

We order, - Summer requesting her extravagant stack of pancakes, me, my pot of coffee. The waitress nods, returning with the coffee moments later.

Summer watches as I fill the mug that she brought me to the brim before lifting it to my lips.

She wrinkles her nose, and it makes her look oddly innocent. "I can't believe that people can just drink their coffee black," she says. "I've tried, but it's just so... bitter."

I place my mug down for a moment to reach for the bottle of ibuprofen she had handed me. I shake a couple of capsules into my hand, washing them down with more coffee before speaking.

"That was the way coffee was meant to be consumed, you know."

She scoffs. "Oh. I see. You're a coffee elitist."

I smirk. "Truthfully, I think 'purist' would be a more fitting term, but..."

She groans before leaning across the table, palms outstretched. "Give me that pot of coffee."

I chuckle, sliding it closer to her. She gives me a genuine, beaming smile in response.

"Thank you very much," she says.

I tip my head to her in acknowledgment. "You are very welcome."

I watch as she pours her own coffee, - slow, careful, delicate. She grabs three sugars, two cream, dumps them in. She grabs the spoon placed at her spot on the table, looking down as she stirs it all up.

"You aren't worried you're going to have a heart attack at the end of the day, after all that sugar?" I ask her, only half joking. She's got those pancakes coming to her soon, - coated in plenty of sweet stuff, just as she had requested. I'm pretty sure the last time I consumed that much artificial sugar at once, I was eleven years old.

Summer looks up from her coffee. She lets go of her spoon to raise her middle finger at me.

"You have to be the most needlessly pretentious person I have ever met," she says, her voice low, composed. "Fuck off, Conor."

Some people would surely be offended if someone like Summer said this to them. Hell, at any other time, I'm pretty sure I would feel the same way.

But there wasn't any real malice in Summer's voice, and the way that her lips are turning up at the edges gives her away.

I do my best to seem unimpressed, looking down at the surface of the table. "Actually, you aren't the first person to tell me that. How unoriginal, Summer."

I look back across the table, only to see the grin that Summer seems to be trying so hard to hide grow larger.

Then she bursts out laughing, - a laugh that is different from her usual girlish giggle. This laugh is loud, brash, and a little obnoxious, and I find it absolutely infectious.

Soon, I'm laughing along with her, causing my stomach to cramp up and my eyes to water.

I know that we're making absolute fools of ourselves, - I'm not even quite sure what was so funny, - but, in the moment, I don't care in the slightest.

Just as I did last night in the yard, I find myself feeling alive.

It's just as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

We're forced to compose ourselves when the waitress returns, placing Summer's heaping plate of pancakes in front of her.

"Here ya go," she says. "Just wave me over if you need anything."

Summer nods, wiping her eyes. "Thank you."

The waitress nods back at her. "Yes, ma'am."

As the waitress returns to the kitchen, Summer picks up her silverware and begins dissecting her pancakes.

As I had expected, the amount of sugary toppings piled on top is nothing short of remarkable, whipped cream and powdered sugar spread all over like snow.

I'd like to be repulsed, - I really would.

But that's kind of hard when the smell hits me, sweet and warm. Through no will of my own, I find my mouth beginning to water.

I pick up my coffee, taking another sip. Though that would usually satisfy me, it's cold comfort when the human form of temptation herself is sitting across from me, about to dive into something I would never in a million years allow myself to consume.

Watching Summer cut her breakfast into pieces, some strange mixture of envy and longing overtakes me.

She isn't like me, - she just seems so normal, in spite of all the things about her that convince me that she's extraordinary.

She lets herself be happy, surrounding herself with people who seem to love her, rather than pushing them away. She doesn't look worried, unless she's looking at me, her strange new tag-along.

"Conor."

I come back to earth when she says my name, - not a question, nor anything too harsh. She's matter of fact as she waits for me to acknowledge her.

I try to pull myself out of the trap of my self-pity. "Hmm?"

Summer pushes a plate towards me, - one of the small ones, intended for appetizers. A sizable piece of one of her pancakes takes up most of the space on it.

"Just eat a little bit," she tells me. "I swear, it'll make you feel a million times better."

"Yeah, right," I reply. But my fork is already in my hand, and I'm beyond ready to slip up, just this once.

The reward almost outweighs the guilt as I take a bite. It's hot and soft and decadently sweet. This pancake is fucking delicious, and I could probably go for a whole stack of them...

If I were anybody else.

I tell myself to think about this later as I polish off the bit of food that Summer provided me with. In a matter of seconds, the plate is spotless.

Unaware of the twisting feeling settling deep in my stomach, Summer beams at me. "See?" she asks. "I knew you had to be hungry."

Trying my best not to look suspect, I force myself to smile back. "Yeah. Those are really good."

"I know, right?" At this point, the first gigantic pancake is gone. She wastes no time diving into the next

We don't say much else for the rest of our time at the diner. Summer occupies herself with finishing her breakfast. I drink several cups of coffee, wishing for a cigarette. I almost light one up before a sign on the wall catches my eye: NO SMOKING.

After a while, Summer cleans her plate, then beckons the waitress to bring her our check.

Once she places the bill on the table, Summer pulls her purse into her lap.

I shake my head. "Don't."

She looks up, eyes wide. "Are you kidding? I'm the only one who ate."

"Doesn't matter," I insist. "You paid last time. And besides..." I try to ignore the heat of my face as I continue. "You did say that this was a date, right?"

I almost think that Summer's cheeks are turning pink, too, as she pushes her bag aside. "Yeah," she says quietly. "I guess I did."

"Yup." I pick up the bill, read the total, then place the necessary amount on the inside. I leave a decent tip for the waitress on top. I take one final sip of my coffee, then slide out of the booth.

"Ready?" I ask Summer.

She nods, following me towards the door.

Summer

After breakfast, I ask Conor for the directions to his house. For a guy who likely has to take cabs a lot, judging by his drinking habits, he gives rather precise instructions. Within fifteen minutes or so, I'm pulling into his driveway.

"And we're here," he announces as I bring the car to a stop.

I turn the key, causing all the background noise of the radio, the air conditioner, and the engine to halt.

Conor doesn't seem to acknowledge that I'm watching him as he seems to run a check for the items he's brought along with him. He pats the pockets of his jeans and sweatshirt a few times before he finally seems to decide he's good. With that, he unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the passenger door.

I almost don't think he's going to even tell me goodbye as he turns around and walks up the driveway. I consider driving away, not wanting to look like I expect anything more from him.

He paid for my breakfast, for God's sake.

Still, I sit and wait just a bit longer, drumming my fingers absentmindedly against the steering wheel. Considering things.

This whole thing is starting to feel out of character for me, I realize.

If there is one thing that I, Summer Dawn Stevens, am not, it's shy. My entire job description requires drawing attention to my bare body, giving parts of my intimate identity up for artistic interpretation.

I've never been afraid to make a scene or act on even the most random of my impulses. In many ways, I'm more of an actress than anything else, — I've feigned interest in even the most unappealing men, all because I knew that I'd get something out of it, be that money or just the slightest bit of overblown admiration.

Even last night, I had played that part: Summer, woman of the world, life of the party.

So why is it that, now that the sun's up and I'm trying to get rid of a vague headache, this awkward boy and his chivalry have the capability to make me feel so on edge?

I must just be tired, I tell myself. I'm overthinking things, that's all.

Conor reaches for his keys and unlocks the door. After he pushes it open, he turns back around, waving at me.

"You can come in, if you want!" he calls.

I pause to think about it. Though I know it shouldn't, something about going inside his house feels like a commitment, some boundary that I probably shouldn't cross.

I think back to the way he acted when he woke up this morning, so nervous that we might have done something that he didn't remember.

Surely he wouldn't try anything now, right?

Even if he does, it's not like I'm a stranger to shutting people down.

That's enough for me to make my decision. I open the door, and follow him up the doorstep.

Wordlessly, the two of us step over the threshold into the house. It's cold inside, the atmosphere wrapping me in a familiar sense of emptiness.

It's clear that he lives by himself. I've seen houses similar to his many a time.

It's that typical twenty-something guy space, the kind that gives you the keen sense that the man living there probably still isn't used to his mom not doing his laundry.

A few empty bottles sit scattered across the counter. A half-empty bag of Wonderbread is the only food in sight. The television appears to have stayed on all night, playing some sort of campy alien movie.

"Sorry about the mess," Conor says, looking genuinely embarrassed. "I wasn't really expecting company, but..."

"But you invited me in," I finish. "Being a gentleman and all."

He gives me a small, shy smile.

"Yeah." He chuckles, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I guess so."

Silence settles in. It's awkward this time, unlike last night in Julie's yard.

Maybe it's because we aren't drinking and smoking anymore.

Or maybe it's the daylight streaming through the window, illuminating the almost golden undertones beneath his dark irises in a way that the light of Julie's kitchen never could.

"So..." Conor reaches up, scratches at the back of his neck. "I guess I'll, um... I'll see you around..."

"Yeah," I reply. "I'll call... soon."

He smiles at me again, — only this time, it looks a bit more like a pained grimace.

How the hell did things get so tense? I wonder.

Wanting to put an end to the discomfort as soon as possible, I speak. "Well, guess I'll head back home..."

"Yeah." Conor nods. "Drive safe."

Though it might have simply been by default, that last remark sets off yet another flutter.

"I will." Not bothering to think about how much more uncomfortable it might things, I lean in to give him a one-armed hug. To my surprise, he reciprocates, wrapping one thin arm around my waist.

When I look up, our eyes lock.

I freeze for a long while, taking in those honey-colored eyes again. I take note of his long, dark lashes, the freckles travelling over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Even though I know he isn't my usual type, I have to admit: he is pretty damn cute.

I feel like I'm barely breathing as the silence goes on. Ridiculous as it is, I wait for the space between us to close, for him to take the next inevitable step.

If he tried, I'm beginning to think that I wouldn't stop him.

Finally, he speaks. "Summer?" he mutters.

I attempt to swallow the cotton-dry feeling in my throat. "Yes?"

"You..." He stops, pulling away with a soft laugh.

"...have whipped cream on your nose."

I reach up, wiping at my face. Surely enough, my hand comes away with a dot of sugary white fluff.

"Shit." I can't help but laugh as I back away from him. "You went the whole car ride without telling me that?"

"I didn't notice until just now, I swear!" he replies.

I shake my head. "Whatever." I turn back towards the door, figuring that I should leave now before I can embarrass myself any further. "I'm going to actually go now..."

"Alright," he says. "See you soon."

"You will," I assure him.

And I think I mean it.