We Could Have Fallen in Love

SJ woke up.

There was no delicate process to it, no stretching or gradual return to reality. She just woke up. One minute her eyes were shut, the next minute they were open.

One minute she was asleep, the next minute she was awake to feel a pair of arms entwined around her. She was leaning into a bare chest, her head resting on that comfortable niche between the shoulder and neck. And for one second, she felt utterly calm and relaxed.

And then she remembered the events of last night. SJ jerked up, dragging the sheet with her. She gazed down at Dougie, who was sleeping peacefully with a content expression on his face. His blonde hair was mussed and the early-morning sun hit his face in such a way that his sharp cheekbones were highlighted. And she assumed he was still naked. Because, she realized, so was she.

“Shit,” SJ muttered to herself. “Shit, shit, shit.” Wrapping the sheet around her, she scuttled out of the bed and took a deep breath to try and settle the billion thoughts going through her head right then. But she couldn’t. What the fuck had she done last night? And the worst part is that she wasn’t even drunk, so she couldn’t even blame colossal amounts of alcohol for her actions. She found her underwear and slipped it on quickly, then dropped the sheet from around her as she bent over and pulled on her boy shorts.

“Jesus, I love it when you bend over,” a sleepy voice said from behind her.

SJ ignored this voice as she grabbed her white tank top and donned it. Then she turned around to face Dougie. His cerulean blue eyes were focused on her lazily, a content smile on his face as he curled up like a cat on his side of the bed. SJ hated that thought—his side of the bed. There were no sides to it. It wasn’t like there was her side and then his side. It was just his fucking bed. And she’d just happened to sleep in it last night. With him.

He seemed to read something from her expression, because his grin faded and he looked worried. “You alright?”

“No. I mean—no.” She sighed, biting her lip. “Dougie, I—”

“Wait.” Dougie lifted himself so he was leaning back on his elbows. “Wait, SJ. Before you say anything, just listen to me.”

SJ suddenly felt panicked and claustrophobic. She didn’t want to hear what he had to say. She wanted to end this, now, before things got weird. Even weirder than they already were, that is. “No, no, Dougie, please,” she said wildly, running her hand through her messy bed hair. “This was a…a mistake, alright? We shouldn’t have—this shouldn’t—I mean—” Her voice trailed off as she tried to look anywhere but him.

“SJ, please. Listen to me.” Dougie sat up completely now. “Don’t say that. Please,” he begged. “You can’t just do this to me.”

“Do what?” SJ suddenly shivered. She grabbed one of Dougie’s American Apparel fleece hoodies and pulled it on.

“Leave me. Again.” He sounded defensive. “Just…just don’t tell me you felt nothing last night. Don’t tell me it meant nothing to you. Because I know it did. Don’t even try and lie to me.”

SJ looked at him. She was tired; he was hopeful. She felt dirty, contaminated; his eyes shined with a kind of misguided faith in her, for whatever reason. She wanted to leave, just get out of this mess she created; he just wanted her. And she wanted to push him away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, breaking eye contact with him. “I should go before anyone wakes up.”

And then she turned, not even waiting to see the shine in his eyes fade, the hopeful look die, that spark disappear. She didn’t want to see these things, because she knew if she did, her resolve would weaken, and maybe she’d go back to that warm bed and cuddle up next to him, not concerned about the world and not giving a shit about what any of this meant. But SJ wasn’t like that. So she turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.

SJ sighed quietly to herself. Why did she always manage to fuck everything up? It was like some special talent she had. All she’d wanted last night was someone to talk to. And she’d ended up sleeping with him.

Whore, a little voice in the back of her mind whispered. Her vision suddenly burned; tears were flooding up in her eyes. She wiped her eyes miserably with the sleeve of Dougie’s sweater and made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

Thankfully it was still early, and no one was down there. SJ suddenly felt starving. She walked over to the fridge and opened it, hunting for something that could satisfy her overwhelming hunger. SJ carefully took out the remains of an apple pie from Christmas dinner, carefully wrapped in aluminum foil. She brought it to the kitchen table and grabbed a fork, ripping off the foil. Here was something simple she could finally control about herself—she could either eat the pie, or not. She brought a forkful of pastry to her mouth and began. And after that first bite, it was like she couldn’t help herself. She ate until she wasn’t hungry, and then she kept eating—maybe it was because she was lonely, or maybe because she was tired, or maybe because of her general unhappiness and constant anxiety and the fact that she had no clue what the fuck was going on in her life, but eating made her feel better. It completed her, in a way.

Finally, she dropped the fork. It fell onto the plate with a clatter loud enough to wake up the entire house. SJ scooted out of her chair, now feeling bloated and disgusting. She took a deep, steadying breath as she brought her plate to the counter and placed it quietly in the spotless sink. Then, she scampered upstairs, feeling sicker and sicker. She opened the door to Jazzie’s room quietly, hoping not to wake her…

But she was already up. The youngest Poynter, carefully smoothing out her covers as she made her bed, looked up at her as she came in. “Oh, hey,” she said. She sounded casual enough, but there was something odd in her tone—was it suspicion? Distrust? “Where were you?”

“Oh. I was, er, I just woke up early,” SJ stammered over her words.

Jazzie narrowed her eyes at her. “Is that Dougie’s sweater?”

There was a moment of swift silence, then SJ quickly made up, “Yeah, I dunno, I just found it downstairs, I was just cold.”

“Are you sure?” Jazzie replied coolly.

SJ looked at her carefully. What did she know? “I was just cold,” she repeated. SJ felt almost faint for a minute. Her stomach churned unhappily.

Jazzie didn’t make any other comment. “I’m going to go shower,” SJ said weakly. She could feel bile climbing up her throat and she hastily made her way to the bathroom. She had just managed to blast the water from the showerhead, to cover up the noise of her retching, before her stomach took over and she fell to her knees, vomiting into that empty porcelain structure that had become her escape. When she was done she stood up, shivering slightly.

Steam from the hot shower rose up lightly, fogging up the windows and mirrors. SJ stared at her reflection as steam from the hot shower rose up lightly, fogging up the mirror gradually and erasing her face. Then, a sudden impulse came over her, and she stepped into the shower, fully clothed. Burning water rained down on her and her body uncontrollably shuddered with sobs. She was in control, wasn’t she?

So why did she feel so unhappy?