Page 106 of Hate You, Maybe
She blows out a breath, her lips bubbling. “We already slept together at the retreat,” she says. “I mean we slept together in the same cabin. I mean we?—”
“I know what you mean,” I say.
Looks like Sayla and I won’t be having any kind of productive conversation until the morning.
“So just to be clear, you’re saying we should go to my place. You’re okay with that?”
She shakes her head and accidentally bangs her skull against the window. “I’m not okay with anything,” she says.
“I know. And I’m so sorry.”
She rubs her temple. “Being sorry doesn’t change what’s already happened.”
You can say that again.
We both fall into silence and stay that way for the rest of the drive to my apartment. I live alone, in a one-bedroom one-bath place, so at least no one else will be put out by Sayla sleeping over. When we arrive, I feed her a couple of Advil, and get her tucked into my king-sized bed. There’s a full bottle of water on the nightstand. My plan is to take one pillow out to the couch and sleep there.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll probably lie awake all night.
I switch off the light and turn to go, but Sayla catches me by the arm. Her grip on my elbow is surprisingly firm for a drunk girl.
“Please,” she slurs. “Stay.”
“What?”
The room is dark, with only slivers of moonlight streaming through the shutters. She flips the light back on, screws up her eyes, and pushes the hair off her face. Her skinis damp from sweat or tears or both. I don’t know. Idoknow her mouth quivers when she says, “Don’t leave me.”
“Yeah, well.” I clear my throat. She looks so vulnerable right now. Too vulnerable. “I don’t think me sticking around is such a great idea.”
“My mom always left.” She heaves a sigh. “Like, always. She was so, so … leave-able.” Sayla sticks out her lip. “I don’t want to be the most leave-able.”
“The most leave-able?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nods, then slips deeper under the comforter, her head burrowed into the pillows. A sharp pain rips through my insides. There’s no way I can leave this woman now. I didn’t want to in the first place.
“Okay.” I turn the light off again, then bend down and press a gentle kiss to her forehead.
“You win, Kroft. I’ll stay.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sayla
I crack open a crusty eyelid and see Dexter, crammed into an armchair in the corner of a room I don’t recognize. He’s wearing the same joggers and rumpled hoodie from yesterday. Or from whenever the last time we were together. His hair is mussed. Eyes bleary. The man looks like I feel.
Which is to say … wrecked.
“Morning, sunshine,” he murmurs.
“Where am I?” I croak, propping my body up, even as a sinking feeling creeps over me. I rub my still-sleepy eyes, then pull my fingers through my hair, assessing just how many knots grew in my rat’s nest overnight. Worse than I thought. Untangling this mess is going to take an entire bottle of leave-in conditioner.
But as confused as I am, my situation has to be more comfortable than his is right now, stuck in a chair half his size. Meanwhile, I'm nestled in a pile of downy pillows, there’s a fluffy gray comforter covering my body, and a plushnavy blanket is draped along the foot of the mattress. Not to mention everything around me smells delicious. Like pine-scented body wash mixed with laundry detergent and a hint of spicy cologne.
Dexter-licious.
“Is this your house?”
“Apartment,” he says.
