the mattress. “I want to sleep with you.”
He sounded drunk. His words were slightly slurred.
“I’m not having sex with you drunk at four in the morning.”
“You have before.”
“I was drunk then too and I wasn’t asleep first. Just go to sleep, Brandon.” I reached out to squeeze his arm. I wasn’t annoyed. I was just too emotional right now. I had a feeling I’d start crying the second he was inside me and that would be mortifying.
“Can I sleep with you?” he asked. I heard his shoes land on my floor with a soft thump. “I just want to cuddle, I promise.”
Torn, I didn’t answer. Did I want him to cuddle? Yes. Would it destroy me? Most likely.
The bed was a double, so when he climbed in beside me, after yanking off his T-shirt, we were crammed up on top of each other. He sighed and spooned me, throwing a heavy arm over my side, his large hand resting on my hip. After giving me a kiss that landed on my ear, he murmured, “You’re the best.”
Then within thirty seconds he was asleep, snoring softly.
No more sleep for me. I was wide awake. Debating endlessly in circles. Did I tell him I was in love with him? It wouldn't change anything if I did though. He didn’t love me in return. Even drunk he wasn’t confessing any deep love. He’d said I was the best, which was great, but that didn’t indicate love. Not even close.
If confessions were going to rise to the surface, you’d think it would be while drunk.
I lay there in the dark, sniffling, silent tears running cool streaks down my cheeks.
Once or twice, I’d thought I had a broken heart.
I’d been so wrong.
This was a broken heart. It felt like I couldn’t breathe. Like I had a hole inside of me that not even a thousand donuts could fill. Like being alone wasn’t going to be okay ever again.
I finally drifted off to sleep, only to get woken again by the sound of a knock on my bedroom door. This time it was Poppy.
“Dakota? Are you awake?”
I sat up, panicked, not sure if the door was locked or not. Brandon groaned in the bed besides me. “Yes, are you okay?”
“I had a bad dream and my dad isn’t in his room. I don’t know where he is.” She sounded scared.
“I’ll be right there,” I said.
“Wake up,” I hissed quietly at Brandon.
He opened one bleary eye and said, “Go away. I’m dying.”
There was no denying he looked like total hungover shit. I could practically hear the throb in his head. “Go die in the bathroom. Poppy is looking for you.”
In my sleep shorts and T-shirt, I went to the bedroom door and managed to slip through the smallest crack imaginable to enter the hallway without Poppy seeing her dad in my bed.
“Hi!” I said, cheerfully. “I think your dad is in the bathroom. He stayed out too late with Mr. Matt and Carson and he doesn’t feel so hot.”
She looked like she needed a hug, so I put my arm around her and led her down the hallway, pulling her in tight to my side.
“Does my dad need rehab too?” she asked, sounding terrified.
“What? No.” Poor kid. My heart shattered all over again. “There’s a big difference between drinking once in a while and it becoming a problem.”
Poppy chewed her bottom lip. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Your dad is fine. He just doesn’t go out with his friends very often so he stayed out too late.” The air in the apartment was chilly. We were in that transitional period of fall where neither the air-conditioning nor the heat is running and where mornings are chilly and afternoons are warm. “Do you want some hot chocolate?”
She looked like she needed some liquid comfort herself.
“I don’t like hot chocolate.” She climbed onto a stool at the island.
“What? You don’t like hot chocolate. That’s bonkers.”
Poppy shrugged. “I don’t really like chocolate.”
I pretended to gasp. “That’s outrageous. A vicious lie.”
She giggled. “No, it’s true.”
“How about hot apple cider, then?” I had bought some two days earlier in a moment of nostalgia for being a kid and going to the apple farm and watching them fresh squeeze the cider.
“I've never had apple cider.”
“That all changes today,” I said, dramatically. “The success of the perfect mug of apple cider hinges on the cinnamon stick.” I went to the refrigerator. “Do you want to talk about your dream?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
Poppy