P.S. I Loathe You.

When I woke up, I had no clue where I was.

I was resting on someone’s bunk, my head throbbing as I watched my surroundings. Many other people were on bunks, mostly in twos as they snored softly, most of them naked. I was on the bunk by myself, rolling over to confirm this. Shifting onto my back, I tried to recollect what had happened.

And why I was only wearing a bra and jeans.

After taking a few breaths to calm my spinning head, I finally remembered – the party. Right. I had taken 10 shots of vodka, flashed the next bus and had about half a dozen more shots. I hadn’t made out with anyone, nor had I had drunken sex (unlike Taylor, who was lying on the bunk across from me with Pete).

Thank god.

Anyways, I rolled over onto the side, facing the tiny window that seemed to be determined to shed some light in the dark place, the glare of the window making my head throb even more. Groaning, I rolled over to my other side, patting the bed around for my shirt. Unable to find it, I sighed and got up anyways, rolling off the side of the bed.

I walked outside – the bus was definitely moving now, and Patrick was lying on the couch, flipping through a magazine. Looking up, Patrick finally noticed me, and started blushing like crazy – whoops. I had forgotten - I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I wasn’t so concerned, but Patrick was blushing his face off, a clear indication that I should probably put a shirt on.

“Do you have a shirt?” I asked him, twirling a small bit of my hair. “I don’t know where mine is.”

Patrick got up from the couch, obviously trying not to look at me – his eyes, however, couldn’t leave me. Awkwardly, I coughed slightly and he blushed again, walking over to the bunks and dragging out a suitcase from underneath and tossing me a red plaid button-up. Taking it, I slipped it on and buttoned the first few buttons, as Patrick tried not to stare.

After slipping on the shirt, I groaned and slumped down onto the couch, rubbing my temples. My head was still throbbing, and Patrick had scurried off to… Do who knows what. My head throbbed like someone was pounding it with a million baseballs or something like that, and I was really in desperate need of Starbucks now.

Patrick sat next to me with a bottle in his hands now – Advil, the savior of all headaches. Prying it from his fingers, I opened the bottle and took 2 tablets, dry-swallowing them and ignoring the disgusting taste. I leaned back on the old, worn couch – it swallowed me up, and my body seemingly sunk into the body of the couch. I sighed in relief – much better.

You could still see my bra. Not that I cared.

Pete was the first to stumble out of bed in rumpled boxers and a white t-shirt, looking like he had been run over by somebody. He stumbled around until he saw me holding the Advil bottle, and basically tackled me over, his hands reaching for the bottle. Stunned, I held the Advil away from his reachy-grabby hands, rolling over to my side – and landing right on Patrick. My head laid on his lap, and I looked up at Patrick’s face, which was turning into a tomato. Soon, Pete had tackled me again, and this time, he managed to fish the tiny bottle out from my equally tiny fingers and popped the bottle open, swallowing three –or was that four? – at once.

Rolling my eyes, I got off of Patrick and collapsed on the couch again, this time face-first. Impulsively and childishly, I asked, “Are we there yet?”

The driver, from somewhere up front, yelled, “2 hours!”

I sighed. We were a long way from home, but a long way from our destination as well.

Pete however, groaned and collapsed on top of me, already asleep.

“EW EW EW.” I screamed, pushing him off of myself and rolling over Patrick to sit on the armrest of the couch.

Patrick’s hands held me there though, keeping me on his lap.

“Shh. You’ll wake up the fierce Peter Panda.”