Free Bend by Kivrin Wilson Page A

parched, and I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe Jay spent the night in my bed, and I don’t remember a thing.
    “You were high as a kite,” he explains, “and I had to carry you to the bathroom so you could throw up before I carried you to your bed, where you latched on to my arm and were sobbing and begging me not to leave you.”
    Oh, God. A wildfire of embarrassment shoots up my neck and into my cheeks. I kind of remember that, I guess, but it’s a jumbled memory that doesn’t feel quite real. I suppose that explains the smell of vomit, though. Is it in my hair? I think it’s in my hair. I slept all night on my vomit-splattered hair. So gross.
    “I’m sorry,” I say weakly. Then I add, “Why didn’t you just sleep on the couch?”
    “I thought about it.” He brushes aside the blankets and starts getting out of bed. “But I decided I needed to actually get some sleep.”
    I open my mouth to respond, but the words die before they reach my vocal cords as I watch him picking his scrub bottoms off the floor and pulling them on. He does it quickly, but I still catch a glimpse of his underwear—black boxer briefs that hug his ass and thighs and take my breath away. I love boxer briefs when they fit the guy well, and they fit Jay perfectly.
    He is perfect. And totally off-limits, for reasons I can’t quite wrap my head around. I’m still kind of lust-stunned as he walks out of the room.
    With a grunt, I roll out of bed and go to the bathroom. I’m groggy and acutely in need of a shower. What time is it? I don’t have a clock on my nightstand, so I have no idea. I always use the alarm on my phone.
    Wait. What day is it? Thursday? I’m supposed to be at work. Shit. I need to call them, but I don’t even know where my phone is.
    Back in the bedroom, I find my yoga pants folded and draped over the armchair in the corner. Jay must’ve done that. After he pulled them off of me. And I can’t remember it. Heat curls in my stomach while I awkwardly manage to pull the pants on one-handed.
    “Hey, where’s my phone?” I ask Jay as I burst out of the bedroom. He’s in the kitchen, plucking a pair of bowls out of a cabinet, and he answers my question with a nod at a white plastic hospital bag sitting on the breakfast bar.
    I go to the counter and am fiddling with the drawstring on the bag when Jay says, “I called your office manager last night and left a message. Told her you wouldn’t be coming in today.”
    He did what? I stand there blinking at him while he pulls a cereal box out of my tiny corner pantry. “How did you know who to call?”
    Shrugging, he dumps cereal into both of the bowls. “You’ve talked about her, and she’s the only Diane in your contacts.”
    Oh, okay. That makes sense. Though I’m not sure how thrilled I am at the idea that he was going through my phone. Guess that’s what I get for not keeping my passcode a secret from him.
    But this is Jay. He wouldn’t be snooping…right? I don’t need to worry that he might have checked out my browser history and found search result pages for stuff like “how to seduce your best friend”?
    Right?
    “Thank you,” I say numbly, watching him get milk from the fridge and pour it on top of the cereal.
    “Mhmm,” is his response.
    Grandma. I need to find out how she’s doing, so I pluck my phone out of the hospital bag and fire off a quick text message as Jay grabs a pair of spoons from my utensil drawer and brings both bowls to my round, counter-height kitchen table.
    “Sit down,” he commands. “Eat. Then you can take some of that hydrocodone if you need it.”
    I shake my head, because I’m pretty sure I don’t want any more of that stuff. Without a word, I plunk down across from him, and then we’re sitting there together, eating breakfast. Munching on cereal and avoiding the other’s eyes.
    This is so bizarre. Totally uncharted territory. Is he still angry at me about last weekend? It’s hard to tell. He’s always