Page 46 of The Very First Night

Strange.

Shards of memories from last night come rushing back, particularly the tension between Elijah and Tanner. I squeeze my eyes shut again, hoping to block out the painful sunlight and the throbbing headache that accompanies it.

As I reach up to rub the crusty mascara from my eyes, a sharp sensation lances through my temples.

A blood-curdling scream echoes through the door, followed by a stern voice that makes my stomach churn. It’s not one of our rowdy friends being obnoxious after a night of drinking.

Elijah jolts upright in bed, nearly smacking me in the head as he realizes who is yelling outside the door.

“Elijah Michael Hanas, get your ass out here. Now!”

My stomach churns and my head throbs as I jolt out of bed, my naked body reacting to the sudden rush of cold air from the early morning chill. I stumble over to the trash can on the opposite side of the room, trying to hold in the bile that threatens to spill out of me. The alcohol from last night seems to hit me all at once, and I feel like I might faint from the intensity of emotions crashing down on me.

Elijah’s next words give me startling clarity as to what has had me out of sorts these past few days. I may not remember what happens—most days I don’t even remember that I went back in time. However, the moment the words spill past his lips, I know with certainty that I fucked up.

“Put some fucking clothes on. That’s my parents.”

His parents.

Elijah’s parents are here. We’re at their house in Myrtle Beach, our friends spread throughout the other bedrooms, with what is sure to be a colossal mess downstairs and at least one person passed out on the couch or floor. Despite all of this, something tells me that finding Elijah and me naked in bed is what put them over the edge.

“Elijah!” The masculine voice—which I’ve deduced is the voice of Governor Hanas—carries through the door as Elijah rushes around the room, hastening to find his clothes and go talk to his parents. He tosses his undershirt from last night in my direction, urging me to at least moderately cover up before he disappears out the door, barely squeezing through the opening as he attempts to hide me in the room.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Governor Hanas yells.

Whatever Elijah says, I can’t make it out, but I discern phrases like “I can’t believe you!” and “How dare you?” voiced by a woman, likely his mother.

It is tense, uncomfortable, and impossible to ignore. I’m frozen in place, listening to every word. Where else would I go, anyway? They’re in front of the door.

“This is my house, not yours. Get your friends out of this house—get that whore out. Now!”

A lump forms in my throat at his dad’s words, the scathing disdain toward me only worsened by the word he used. Not “that girl,” not simply “her,” but “that whore.”

Normally, I don’t let insults affect me, but the way he sneers those words pierces my heart and twists it in my chest. My body tenses and my hands clench into fists as I fight back the urge to lash out in defense. The intensity of his disdain is palpable, like a physical force pushing against me. It’s not just the words; it’s the venomous intent behind them that cuts deep and leaves a lasting impact.

He didn’t know about me, or if he did…it was surface-level. Some girl Elijah has been seeing at school, but not someone who matters.

Not important. Inconsequential. That whore.

I objectively know that is a bizarre notion to latch onto. Hell, he called me a whore. But I don’t care about that—I know I’m not a whore; I know he’s not right about that. I’ve only been with two people. Even if it were true, it’s not his place to comment on it. But that.

That whore.

How can someone who’s only seen me once figure out the exact thought that my dad had all those years ago?

She doesn’t matter… It must be pathetic the way I seem to wear that on my sleeve.

With that, the door creaks open as Elijah slips back through and I hear the sound of his parents disappearing down the hall, then down the stairs. The moment his gaze meets my own, my eyes fill with tears.

I expect him to comfort me, to tell me that they’ll get past what happened, that we’re in college and that they know better than to judge me after finding me naked in bed with their son once. That one day they’ll learn to love me the way he does, even if he’s never said it.

He does none of those things. Elijah offers me no comfort, no loving reassurances that I’m not what his dad called me, no reminder that his parents aren’t in this relationship and that I matter.

Elijah says, “We need to get packed.”

He grabs his phone off the nightstand, no doubt prattling off a text message to those downstairs, telling them to get packed so we can cut our trip short and head home. He then starts stuffing everything into his duffel, all while I stand there, staring at him in disbelief.

No hug, no tight squeeze to quell the tears streaming down my face. No reminder that this didn’t entirely change everything about us.

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