Page 125 of Forbidden Lessons

One arm dangles over the side, the back of her hand resting on the floor. Her lips are parted, her eyes closed. Mascara smudges under her eyes.

Her hair is tangled, her dress creased.

Only one shoe on one pretty foot.

She’s not breathing.

Jesus.

My hands are on my head, fingertips laced, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel tooth enamel squeaking.

I need to call an ambulance.

No,fuck, what am I thinking? No one can find her here.

How could I let this happen?

Why the hell didn’t I let her sleep in her car last night? I insisted she stay with me. Insisted she drink more wine.InsistedI wouldn’t go psycho on her.

Whythe fuckdid she believe me?

My cellphone chimes urgently—my usual morning alarm. But there’s nothing routine about waking up with a dead girl in your?—

Haven snorts, drags in a ragged breath, turns her head away, and starts snoring.

I bend, hands on my knees, and try to coax some air back into my lungs.

Much belated memories of last night flood into my mind.

We ate together. Drank together. Listened to music together. Laughed at my music taste together.

Then it was late, and she could barely keep her eyes open. And I couldn’t let her sleep in her fucking back seat like she always did. Couldn’t call an Uber to take her home, because, according to Drunk Haven, her home was where the heart was, and that was in her fucked up sedan parked next to my obnoxious Tesla.

Her words, not mine.

I tried to convince her to sleep in my bed, that I would take the couch, but that’s around when she passed out.

No way in fucking hell I was moving her. What the hell would she think if she woke up in a different place than where she remembers falling asleep?

After how much she drank, though, I doubt she’ll remember anything at all.

I make us coffee, double strength. I could take pity on her—both of us—and call this a snow day, but that would set a pretty shitty example.

Plus, after the breakfast I have planned, she’ll be right as rain in an hour or two.

I take her coffee to her, setting it down on the table and shaking her shoulder. “Haven. Haven, you have to wake up.”

“Ffffmmm.”

“Come on, girl. You’ll feel better after this coffee and a shower.”

“Mmffffffgd.”

Which is ‘oh my fucking god’ in hangover. I spoke it fluently in my twenties.

“Yes, I know it hurts, but maybe you’ll remember to pace yourself next time.” I grab her under the arm and drag her into a sit.

Her head lolls to the side in an uncanny resemblance to the dead person I thought she was mere minutes ago.

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