Page 104 of The Last Good Man

And when I did, my sleep was worse than being awake.

MELODY

Somehow, I’m making it to the morning hours when light slides over my face. I crack an eye open, and the couch is the first thing I focus on.

He’s gone.

I zip upright and drag my gaze around the room, my eyes foggy, a debilitating migraine pounding my brain.

“What the fuck…” I mutter, rubbing a cold hand over my face.

I glance at the couch again.

His jacket, cigarettes, and lighter are gone while the blanket is crumpled on a chair.I stare at it for a fewlongseconds, wrestling with my brain fog.

This is more thanhimpicking up the blanket and dropping it on the chair.

He crumpled it up and tossed it on the chair.

Dropping and tossing are two different things.

The first action signals carelessness. The second hints at anger and frustration.

Why would he be angry?

I ponder for a second. Maybe I’m reading into it too much.Ormaybeit has nothing to do with me.

Maybe he had issues at work. Or maybe he was cold and woke up with a painful back.

I know I would after a night on that sofa.

The more I sit, the worse my headache gets.

I slide my legs over the edge of the bed and look for my slippers.I'm still sitting with my eyeshalf–closed, the throbbing pain ruining my morning.

I’m not even sure whether I packed a pain reliever or not.

Who knew I’d need one?

Steps ring outside, and my eyes snap open.

I hurriedly push up, throw my robe on, and run my fingers through my hair just as someone knocks firmly on the door.

“Yes,”I say.

“May I come in?” Olivia asks. “Breakfast is ready.”

“Yes, of course.”

Breakfast in bed.I forgot about that.

I open the door, pretending to be cheerful and rested.

Neither is true.

If anything, I’m grumpy and tired.

She carries the breakfast tray to the bed before glancing at me.

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