The Way to Game the Walk of Shame
Jenn P. Nguyen
To my dad, my number one biggest fan.
I miss you every single day.
Con th??ng b? nhi?u l?m.
1
{Taylor}
Before I even opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong. I wasn’t in my bed like I should be, surrounded by the cream duvet comforter that Mom and I had gotten from Macy’s last month. The fabric under my fingertips was cool and kind of scratchy.
Evidence number two: It smelled different. Not in a bad way. Just not like the apple-cinnamon air freshener that Mom loved and sprayed all over the house, despite the fact that Dad and I hated cinnamon. I usually countered it by walking around the house with vanilla candles. As a result, our house smelled sweeter than the largest bakery in town. Ironic, because none of us could actually bake.
I sucked in another deep breath to be sure. Nope, there were no apples, cinnamon, or vanilla of any kind here. Instead, it smelled like cotton with a faint touch of pine and grass.
But the most damning evidence of all was the muscular, bare back of a half-naked—at least I hoped it was just half, since I couldn’t see beneath the navy blanket wrapped around his hips—guy lying beside me. Who definitely should not be in my bed.
“Oh god. Oh. My. God.” My voice came out in a hoarse squeak. I squeezed my eyes shut before opening them again. Once. Twice. Over and over until fuzzy stars appeared on the pale-blue ceiling—a ceiling that was also not mine—but he wouldn’t disappear.
And the stars didn’t help my throbbing head. Why hadn’t anyone warned me that drinking would make me feel like crap the next day?
With shaky hands, I peered beneath the covers, and—whoosh—a sigh of relief escaped. Thank god I was fully clothed. If you could call the lacy black tank and capris that Carly had stuffed me into the night before fully clothed. But besides that, everything else looked normal. Except for the strange room and the half-naked guy I was in bed with.
I was in a crapload of trouble. Why had I let Carly drag me to that party last night? (Note to self: Nothing good ever comes from listening to that girl.) But she’d caught me in a weak moment. Granted, I had a bunch of weak moments after I got my wait-list letter from Columbia.
But seriously, me, Taylor Simmons. Wait-listed! I still couldn’t believe it. Didn’t they know who I was? Did they even look at my application, for god’s sake? It was impeccable, and I turned it in extra early. I even had to add an extra page for my list of accomplishments. I should have been a shoo-in.
But the months passed, and no acceptance letter. And they didn’t respond to my e-mails and phone calls to check if the computers were down. Or if the acceptance committee was all sick and hospital-bound. Nothing. Until finally, a measly wait-list letter last month.
Anyway, that wasn’t the point. Not really. The point was that I’d been dragged to the party … and then I’d left. Obviously. But where was I now? And how did I get here? Where was Carly, and why hadn’t she stopped me or—
“Hmph.” The guy flopped over onto his stomach, away from me.
Heart racing, I could barely move. My chest tightened, but I didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, until the soft snoring from his side of the bed resumed. And even then, I could only let out short half breaths.
That was close. Too close. I needed to get out of here. Now.
I cautiously eased off the mattress, inch by inch, wincing as the slight movement made my head pound harder. My toes touched the soft carpet, and I pushed myself upright, freezing for a full minute every time the bed creaked. Only a bit farther.
After what felt like hours—although it was probably only a few minutes—I slipped off the edge of the bed and took a step toward the door. Big mistake. The floor’s creak was like a shotgun blasting across the room. The guy stirred, and I dove toward the ground, landing on the maroon carpet with a soft thump. My head smacked against my forearm. Ouch.
What the…? A name was written on my left forearm in my curly handwriting. My name. Taylor Simmons. How hammered had I been to scribble my own name on my arm? Seriously, what the hell happened last night?
There was no time to think about it now. Still on my hands and knees, I stumbled around the dark room for my silver sandals. The only noise was the soft snoring from the lump on the bed.
Still … who was my partner in crime? Could it be someone I knew, or was it—holy crap—a random guy I met at the party? Was I a harlot like in those Regency romance novels I hid in the back of my nightstand?
Or was courtesan the right word? It sounded classier, at least.
“Oh god.” I shook my head and resisted the urge to smack my palm against my forehead. Now wasn’t the time to get technical.
A sliver of sunlight shone through the top of the window shades, casting a shadow over his face, which was still partially buried in the pillows. I peered over the edge of the mattress but couldn’t see more than his muscular, deeply tanned back. I thought his hair was dark, but I couldn’t be sure. Even though I knew I should get the hell out of here, a part of me—probably the part that was still drunk—hesitated. I had to know who he was. But each time I tried to get closer, the damn floor kept creaking.
Jeez, what kind of house was this?
Against my better judgment, I snooped around the room, careful to crawl on my elbows and stomach like a soldier on enemy territory. Tennis shoes, video games, textbooks with crisp pages that hadn’t been used very often, an admirable collection of old-school comic books … Bingo! I hit the jackpot when I tossed a dirty magazine out of the way and found a stack of pictures. I shoved my tangled, dark hair out of my face and moved a little closer to the light.