Page 6 of Finding Mr. July

G ray light filters through my closed eyelids as a buzzing sound from someplace far away pierces my unconscious. I don’t move, willing sleep to return. No matter what time it is, I know on a visceral level I’m not ready to be alive yet.

I exhale through parted lips and catch a whiff of my own breath against the firm pillow beneath my cheek.

Ugh, gross. It’s enough to have me swear off tequila forever.

Little glimpses of the evening make themselves known: Manny onstage, DaVon and Eric breakdancing, the fundraising challenge, doing shots with…

The buzzing noise comes closer. I want to yell at Jude for vacuuming this early on a Saturday morning, but I don’t have the energy.

Besides, it could be noon already. The thought pulls me closer to the surface.

If that’s the case, I should rally. I know I have plans today—except it’s hard to remember exactly what they are.

Before the swirling thoughts in my head can settle, the buzzing retreats again. It’s almost soothing. Maybe I’ll sleep a little longer after all.

I attempt to turn my face into the pillow, but it doesn’t give, and when I run my palm across it, the feeling jogs something in my memory.

Something significant. My foggy mind starts clearing, becoming more aware each moment.

The wall behind me is softer than usual, the ever-noisy finches silent, and—this is where I firmly leave sleep behind—the light is coming from the wrong direction.

There’s no window opposite the bed in my room.

Then my mattress moves. It’s subtle, but there’s no mistaking my palm rising and falling. With the movement, a rush of familiar but misplaced scents washes over me—whiteboard marker, lemon cleaner, dusty fabric, and, more immediately, the musky floral hints of cologne.

Instantly, my brain summons a visual memory that hits low in my belly. No warning, just zing : a bare chest and firm hands caressing my hips.

My eyes fly open, and a split second later, I’m pushing myself up and off what I now realize is the couch in the GCL rec room.

The one facing the windows with a view of South Lake Union.

The commotion disturbs my “mattress,” aka Jonathan, who, still asleep, lifts his hands to his head and arches his back off the cushions in a stretch.

His black shirt is unbuttoned to his navel.

A faint smattering of hair decorates his defined pecs.

“Nooo…” I groan as I will my head to stop spinning. “No, no, no, no, no.” Behind me, the vacuuming noise approaches again. The cleaning staff. They’re here for their weekend sweep. I flick Jonathan’s foot and hiss, “Wake up.”

“Huh?” he grunts, still not opening his eyes. His lips part on a deep breath, and as his full lower lip moves, I know by how my mouth waters that I’ve tasted it. The memory forces a stop to my tense movements.

“This is a very nice dress,” he’d said, running his fingertips along my collarbones through the lacy fabric at my neck. His touch had been reverent and goose bumps–inducing. I’d straddled him here on this couch with my hands on his shoulders as I leaned down to kiss him.

The hair at my nape rises with the echoes of his touch. Did we…?

I run my hands down my body and then up over my shoulder in a quick inventory. Clothes are still on and in their right places, thank God, but the zipper is open. I try and fail to reach the pull tab between my shoulder blades.

“Hey,” I say a little louder. “Jonathan. Wake up.”

“What is it?” he mumbles, but then he finally squints at me, and I see exactly when the situation registers with him.

His eyes fly open, and with a distressed “wha,” he’s up and seated as far from me on the couch as possible.

He runs a hand through his hair, his unfocused gaze cutting between me and the window, me again, and then the interior of the rec room.

“How did we…? Why are you…? What happened? Fuck, my head.” He leans forward and buries his face into his palms.

“I was hoping you could tell me.” I scan the floor for my shoes, but they’re nowhere to be found. I frown as another image appears of me holding on to his arm and taking them off. In the stairwell? Why didn’t we take the elevator up?

He cracks his neck and rubs the back of his hand across his mouth. “Did we both sleep… here?” He touches the couch.

I glance over my shoulder. The cleaning staff will be here soon. “Seems like it.”

He shakes his head as if to rattle loose the memories.

Looks down. And at the sight of his bare chest, something does hit him.

He stands abruptly and yanks his shirt closed.

“Did we…?” He frowns as if searching his brain for an answer.

One of his palms strokes the top of his abs, mimicking a move I’m pretty sure I was responsible for last night.

When his hand stills, a disbelieving smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You tried to seduce me.”

If I was still in heels, I’d stumble backward. No way am I letting him take the narrative in that direction. “Excuse me? Isn’t it much more likely that you tried to seduce me?”

“Why? Because I’m a man?”

“Well, yeah.”

He matches up the first button with the wrong hole. “If I remember right, you’re the one who suggested a drinking contest. For all I know, this is what you had in mind the whole time.” Gotcha , his expression says.

I push down the possibility that he’s right and laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. I get that women fawning over you is probably a regular occurrence, but what I was after was a team to win the fundraiser.”

“And yet here we are.” He’s finally figured out the buttoning sequence and starts tucking the shirt into his jeans.

My fingers through his belt hoops, pulling him closer. His lips against my throat.

I shrug off the memory. “Exactly—which is why I think this was your doing.”

He crosses his arms. “I would never.”

“Neither would I.”

Is it just me or might we both need to work on delivering our lines with more conviction?

We stare at each other as the rising sun separates us with shafts of light through the half-drawn blinds. I almost have time to forget what we’re arguing about. It’s tricky holding on to arguments in the state I’m in. We’re in. I need water and ibuprofen. Stat.

He doesn’t break eye contact until we hear the rattling of garbage cans being emptied somewhere nearby. Then his shoulders slump as he lets his arms drop. “We should get out of here,” he says, looking around for something. “Did I have a jacket?”

“I don’t know if you brought it up here. Everything’s kind of foggy.”

That elicits half a smile from him. “We probably should have known better than to dive deep into that bottle of tequila, huh?”

I nod. What was I thinking? As I do, my mind catches up— His shoulders solid beneath my palms as I push the jacket off him —only the location of that particular interaction is still a haze.

“Do you have everything?” he asks, approaching the door.

I look down at my bare feet. “Yeah, I think maybe my shoes are in—”

“The stairwell.” His eyes widen with the realization.

So he does remember some of it. “Don’t ask me why.”

A tense silence settles between us as he holds the door open to the vestibule. The tile is cool beneath my feet.

“Hold on. Your dress.” He makes me stop and comes up behind me.

I’d forgotten about the zipper.

Gently, he takes hold of the pull tab. His other hand holds the two sides together.

With every tooth closed, I’m finding it harder and harder to breathe normally, and when his fingertips inevitably make contact with my skin to brush my hair aside, there’s a ripple beneath the surface that makes me step away as soon as he’s done.

“Thanks.” I roll my shoulders back and pretend I’m busy smoothing down my skirt.

“No problem.” His voice has softened in contrast to our squabble a few minutes ago.

There are more memories echoing off the concrete walls and steps in the stairwell.

He’d made me laugh, causing our walk up the four flights to take longer than it should have.

And over there, in the corner by the fire extinguisher on the third landing, he’d pushed me up against the wall (or is that where I pulled him to me?).

That was the first kiss, I think. The tip of his nose had been warm next to mine, his smile alive against my cheek.

I clear my throat and make sure to stay a step ahead of him, so he can’t tell what I’m thinking.

With any luck, he won’t remember. One floor down and there are my heels carelessly discarded.

I pick them up but don’t put them on. I don’t trust that my equilibrium and this descent will be a good combo this morning.

“Why did you say that earlier?” he asks suddenly. “About women fawning over me?”

I pause halfway down the last set of stairs. “Um… because of how you look.”

“And how is that?” His expression is searching, curious, not fishing for compliments.

I wave my hand up and down in front of him. “Like this. All mysterious and…” I swallow the next word. He has a big enough head without me calling him hot .

“Oh.” His eyebrows jump.

We keep walking.

“Thanks, I guess?” he says, making it sound like a question. “They don’t, though. Women, I mean.”

“Just me when I’m drunk, then.” I instantly regret the comment and bite down on my cheek.

A warm chuckle. “If you say so.”

I want to object, but my head isn’t clear enough to reason myself out of that semantic labyrinth.

“Speaking of drunk,” he says, “who do you reckon won?”

I hold the door for him this time, put on my shoes, and then we step out into the lobby of the building.

“Won?”

“The shot contest.”

Even in my current state, I know there’s more to his question than simply calling it in favor of one or the other.

The dynamic between us has shifted. I don’t know much more about him than I did yesterday, and he doesn’t know me, yet we can no longer claim to be strangers.

The question then becomes, will I still insist on us working together after last night? Will he still insist we don’t?

But also, if I’m being completely honest, it does seem like I remember more of the night than he does, and surely that should count in my favor.

“Pretty sure I won,” I say as we step outside, and the sun hits our faces.

Maybe I’m imagining it, but for a split second, it looks like he’s sucking in the corner of his lip to stifle a smile. “Is that so?”

We face each other, ready to go our separate ways. A truck rumbles by next to us. The fact that it’s alone must mean it’s still early.

“Uh-huh.” I force my chin up. Confidence is half the battle.

He scratches his temple, his gray eyes finding mine again. He nods slowly. “Guess I’ll take your word for it.”