Page 22 of Lessons in Sin

I feel a sense of déjà vu when I wake, the bright light from the sun dragging me from sleep. The feel of the sheets, the smell clinging to them, the big, towering windows; they all feel familiar.

And that’s when I remember, my splintered memories crashing over me in one big embarrassing wave.

I’m in Tristan’s bed, wearing one of his shirts.

Holy shit Scarlett, what the fuck did you do last night?

Wincing at the fragments of last night, I look to the right to see that his side of the bed is, thankfully, empty. At least I can postpone the embarrassment of seeing him for a little bit longer. From the looks of the imprint on the mattress, he slept here - his night preserved in a sleepy snow angel.

Shifting, I bury my head into the pillow, groaning at the pounding in my skull. My head is killing me right now - it should be a rule that if you spend your night throwing up every drink you bought, you shouldn’t then be punished with a hangover the next morning. It’s only fair.

Holy hell I want to die.

Sitting up, I ignore the pounding in my skull. The entire apartment is silent bar from the shifting of the sheets. He must have soundproof windows because even everyday sounds like birds and traffic are silenced in this place. It’s creepy as hell.

Maybe I could slip away and forget this ever happened, maybe he wouldn’t bring it up again. But —

I guess we’re a match made in heaven.

He really did care and I’d be a fool to run away now when I’ve finally got something to go on.

Slipping from the bed, I make my way through to his open-plan kitchen and living room. The kitchen is any cook’s wet dream complete with double ovens, a kitchen island, and a huge fridge - all decorated tastefully in shades of black and white. It looks like the sort of kitchen you’d see in one of those interior design magazines - perfectly designed yet coldly clinical.

His living room feels slightly more lived in with the coffee cup on the coffee table and the imprint on the couch where he clearly favours sitting. But it still feels … cold.

There are no photographs or decorations - he doesn’t even have any throw pillows. Who doesn’t have throw pillows?

I grew up living in a house similar to this - cold and clinical. Every decoration wasn’t picked because my mom and dad liked it, it was picked to keep the perfect picture of perfection on the outside.

I wasn’t even allowed to sit on the sofa unless it was night-time, and I knew that no one would be coming over.

Shaking my head, I rid my mind of the memories and move to the kitchen to see a note sitting on the counter beside a glass of water and two painkillers.

Smiling I down the drink and pills before reading the note.

Scarlett,

I have a meeting I can’t get out of, but I will be back soon.

Do Not Leave.

-Tristan.

Butterflies soar in my stomach as I read. He’s double-underlined the Do Not Leave. The command in his words is clear - do not disobey.

Jumping onto one of the island chairs, I pull out my phone. There’s a message waiting from Noah.

Noah: Don’t forget to message when you’re up otherwise imma come drag you out of bed myself to see if you’re safe.

Scarlett: The only dangerous thing right now is my hangover.

Just as the text sends, the door to Tristan’s apartment opens. Tristan walks in holding a bag and a tray of four drinks that smell like the drink of the Holy Spirit - coffee. He’s discarded his casual sweatpants from the night before for a suit. His meeting must have been at LAU.

Ignoring the heat filling my cheeks, I point at the coffee cups. ‘Please tell me one of those is for me.’

He smiles, the sight leaving my mouth dry. ‘They’re all for you.’ He points to each one in turn. ‘Latte, Caramel Macchiato, Americano, Black.’

I raise my brow. ’Do I look like I need this much caffeine to revive myself?’

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