Page 77 of The Very First Night

“It’s practically morning.”

“And you can leave in a few hours, but for now just let me hold you.”

Tanner Adler doesn’t plead; he doesn’t ask women to stay the night. From what I’ve heard, he seldom stays the night with the women he beds. It is taking everything in me right now not to read too much into that, but given the past year, I can’t let myself impose meaning onto a man’s words.

If it meant something to him, he would have told me—we made a deal. Just sex, no feelings. That’s what we agreed upon.

Yet he’s so warm. My bare back against his torso as he curls around me is probably the most comforted I’ve felt in years and, even though I know it’s best for both of us if I go, I can’t find it in me to deny him exactly what he wants.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Tanner presses a light kiss to the back of my head before letting out a sated sigh.

Comfortable and warm, we both drift back to sleep.

When the morning sun blasting through the blinds is impossible to ignore, I rub my eyes, wiping away any remnants of sleep as well as the mascara I forgot to wash off last night. It all happened so fast that I didn’t even think to remove my makeup—luckily I wasn’t wearing very much of it.

I yawn as I look around the room, which looks different cast in the warmth of the morning sun. I can finally make out the words scrawled on each cardboard box stacked against the wall: “Art Supplies,” “Bedding,” and “Books” are just a few that catch my eye. Stretching my arm across the bed to rouse Tanner from his slumber, I feel only cold sheets.

At first I think he may have just gone to the bathroom, but based on how cold it is, I know he’s been gone more than a couple minutes.

A familiar knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach. I knew I had been right to want to stay in my room. This was just a casual hookup, but even knowing that, part of me yearns for something more. The realization that he grabbed his shoes and left without a second thought washes over me as I pull the blanket to my chin. My chest feels heavy with sadness and I can’t shake the feeling that I was just another fleeting encounter for him.

We’re friends—friends don’t have to tell each other when they’re going somewhere, so why should Tanner? It’s unfair for me to hold him to a standard completely at odds with what we’re doing, yet I can’t stop thinking about what this could mean for us.

Tanner is one of my best friends. Did I really just manage to ruin that over a single night of great sex? I was so worried about Tanner knowing that this is just sex that I forgot to remind myself.

I push the blankets off of me and search for my clothes from last night, finally finding my tank top and pajama pants fanned out haphazardly on the floor. Quietly, I sneak back over to my room and sit down at my desk, suddenly thinking about the one thing that could distract me from whatever this is with Tanner.

The letter from my brother sits on top of my desk. I’ve decided to write him back, but what does someone say to the brother they’ve never met, let alone the brother who was the reason your dad left?

Am I supposed to be like “Hey man, don’t sweat it, it’s not your fault you ruined my life”?

Because really, it isn’t his fault. From the sound of it, my dad wasn’t so great to him either.

My hand trembles as I reach to grab a pen and the spiral-bound notebook out of my backpack.

A firm knocking echoes through my bedroom, making me jump and let out a small yelp. I hear Tanner’s deep laugh from the other side of the door, his presence unmistakable even before he speaks. Frustrated, I groan and try to focus on the paper in front of me, refusing to acknowledge his presence just yet.

“Kaaaat,” he says in a singsong tone.

“Come in,” I call out. I’m so not ready to have the conversation about how last night shouldn’t have happened, but even I know it’s necessary for the sake of our friendship. I also know his attempts at getting my attention will just get more and more outrageous the longer I ignore him.

The old door squeaks as it creaks open.

“Hey,” Tanner says, his voice raspy and relaxed, his hair disheveled. He looks perfect. The asshole always looks perfect.

“Hey,” I sigh, then realize he’s holding a drink carrier with two large coffee cups as well as a small white paper bag, the kind you’d get at a restaurant.

“Why’d you come in here?” he asks, setting the carrier and bag on the edge of my desk.

“You left, so I figured I should come to my own room.”

“I went to get coffee?—”

“Look, if you regret last night, I get it. We can just pretend it ne?—”

“Kat.”

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