Page 17 of Captured Immune

“Shitty.” My voice comes out raspy.Definitely need more water.“What happened last night?”

“What do you remember?”

The last thing I remember is being a tragic wreck on my couch, guzzling as much forget-her-juice as possible. Judging by the way I woke up half naked in Arella’s apartment, I’d say the juice didn’t work.

I must take too long to respond, because she says, “You came over late last night. You were a little drunk.”

I’m too nauseous to have only beena littledrunk. Usually when I drink that much, I pass out for hours. I’ve never driven myself somewhere. I must not have drunk enough to completely shut down my body. Either that or drunk me had a very determined one-track mind.

“Did I talk a lot last night?” I ask, unsure if I want the answer.

“A little.”

“What did I say?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Nothing, really.”

I can’t tell if she’s lying or not. With her, I never know. It’s one of the many reasons why this woman is still a mystery to me.

“Do you want some coffee?” she asks.

“I thought you don’t like coffee?”

“I don’t. I bought some a while ago in case you ever wanted some.”

That was thoughtful of her.How long ago did she get this coffee for me? Why did she even care to get it? Was it before or after she slept with that other guy?

I sigh heavily and push down the pain. I guess it doesn’t matterwhenshe got it. What matters is that she made it for me, and it smells delicious. “Yeah, I’ll have some, please.”

She disappears into her kitchen. After some rustling around, she comes to me and sets a steaming mug on her coffee table.

She’s so beautiful.I wish I could have her again. Just one more day. Actually, no. Every day—for the rest of my life. Any less won’t be enough.

“Where are my clothes?”Wait... did we have sex last night?I’ll be pissed if we did and I don’t remember it.

“In the dryer. They were wet, so I washed them for you. They should be done soon. Your shoes and jacket are by the door. Hopefully, they’re dry now.”

I lift the coffee to my face and take a whiff. I’m glad she knows I like my coffee black without having to ask. Like how I know she likes her salads with the dressing on the side. Her pasta with white sauces, never red. Her strawberries cut into halves, never quarters, because, apparently, they taste different.

She also likes the toilet paper going over, never under. To her, I do it wrong. Apparently, reloading the toilet paper whatever way it happens to be facing is weird. What else is weird, at least to her, is the way I cover my pancakes with whipped cream until I can’t see the pancakes anymore. I don’t think that’sthatweird. What’s actually weird is that she pours her milk in before the cereal. Like seriously? Who does that?

“How did my clothes get wet?” I want to drink the coffee, but the side of the mug tells me it’s way too hot right now, so I set it back onto the table.

“You really don’t remember anything, do you?” She takes a seat on the other side of the couch.

“Not a thing.” I groan, mostly because she’s never sat so far from me before. The space is maddening.

“You walked here. In the rain.”

I raise an eyebrow at her that says,Come on. Really?When her deadpan expression doesn’t falter, I let out a low chuckle. “I must have been insane.”

“I think you just needed someone to talk to.”

I hope I didn’t say anything stupid. My past drunk experiences tell me I probably did. According to Liz, the saying “A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts” rings true for me.

Liz and I are so close that a lot of people think we have romantic feelings for each other. Whenever Liz wants to shut them up, she tells them the story of the time I got so drunk, I booty-called her at two in the morning. Except, it wasn’t a booty call at all.

According to her, I begged her to come over because I had something important to tell her that could only be said in person. When she arrived, I spent the next hour lamenting over how much I loved her, as a friend of course, and how if she ever disowned me, I’d jump off a cliff. Not once did I make a move. Liz says that if drunk me wasn’t interested in her sexually, then sober me isn’t either.

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