Seventeen.

I had never been a fan of Sundays, but this one was somehow worse. I usually woke up stressed, deciding which of the stack of homework assignments I'd do first. Then before I could start any of it, my mother would barge in my room, yelling for me to wake up before griping about something I hadn't done. Today, sadly, I did not get to hear the lovely sound of my mother's voice. I woke up in a bed that wasn't mine, with a boy whose name I couldn't remember, and with no recollection of what had happened beforehand.

I just want to say that how I got into this situation is beyond me, and that none of my previous behavior would even remotely suggest this - I haven't even kissed a boy since freshman year.

Naturally, my first thought was to get the hell out of there, so I looked around the blinding white room for the outfit I had been wearing the day before. With my terrible luck of course it was on the opposite side of the room, past the boy whom I hoped wasn't a light sleeper. I prayed to God I could make it out without any conversation and scurried to the pile of clothes on the floor to quickly get dressed.

"Your phone is on the dresser. You have, like, twenty missed calls."

I froze. My heart started beating so quickly I could hear it. I had only wiggled half way into my jeans when I heard the voice: not that deep but still masculine, still groggy from having recently woken up, calm as if this were a normal thing. I didn't turn to face him. That probably would have been the logical thing to do, but I couldn't think of anything to say. I fastened my jeans and walked toward my phone. Shit. 26 missed calls. Surprisingly they weren't all from my mother whom I'd promised I'd be home by 1:00; there were a good amount from the Miranda to my Lizzie McGuire: Christian. I needed to call her back, but not with this random guy listening in.

"Um," it felt weird addressing him, especially since I could feel his eyes on my back the whole time. "Where's your bathroom?" I hadn't looked at him before now, and I saw that he was really good-looking.

"Through that door." He points to a half-open door on the other side of the room.

"Thanks." I grab my top from the floor, realizing now that I had been in my bra this whole time and become self-conscious as I walk to the bathroom to phone Christian.

I anxiously listen to the phone ring before I am greeted with the sweetest sounding, "What the hell?"

"Oh, thank God!"

"What's going on? Are you dead?"

"I will be when I get home."

"Did you get my text?"

"No. What did it say?"

"Your mom called my mom."

"Shit."

"No, it's cool. I picked up. I told her you fell asleep and spent the night." Christian always boasted about how much she and her mother sound alike on the phone. I'm surprised - but very thankful - that my mom bought it. "I should have told her I had no fucking idea where you were and that she should call the police!" she scolds.

"Thanks," I mumble too softly for her to hear under her rant.

"So now tell me what the hell is going on. I deserve to at least know why I'm lying."

"Well, I'm not entirely sure what's going on," I admit. "I'm at some boy's house. I don't know who he is."

"What?"

"I think we had sex."

"WHAT?"

"I'll fill you in later. I have to figure out how I'm getting home...and how not to die when I get there."

"Send me the address. I'm coming to get you."

"I can't ask you to do that. If you're late to work again you'll be fired."

"Yeah, but if I don't get you, you could be killed."

"I won't be killed."

"Are you sure? If something bad happens, I'll -"

"I'm sure. Plus, I think if he wanted to kill me he would have done it by now," I try to laugh.

A few minutes later, I finally emerge from the bathroom, fully dressed and nervous from the thought of confronting the boy in the other room. This is so weird; I don't know what I should say to him. Do I thank him and leave? I notice the boy has gotten out of bed and gotten dressed since I left.

"You ready to go?" he asks. His cavalier attitude throws me off, almost as if I'm supposed to be going somewhere with him.

"Huh?"

"You need a ride home, don't you?" He looks like his is a natural response. I've never done this before, but I'm pretty sure this isn't how these things worked. Plus, I still don't really know the nature of our relationship or what the hell happened or whether he really is a maniac and is waiting to kill me or what.

"Uh, no. I'll be fine." I notice my shoes on the floor just past where he was standing, and I go to get them.

He turns to me, "I'm just trying to help. You even told your friend if I was going to kill you I'd have done it by now." I look up at him as he smirks a beautiful, amused smirk. I hadn't noticed until then just how tall the boy was. At least a foot taller than me. Maybe 6'3? He towers over me. Yeah, if he wanted to kill me he could've done it by now.

Wait a minute. "You were listening to me on the phone? Creep!"

"Stop being so dramatic. You sound like you learned to whisper in a hurricane."

I cross my arms and grumble.

"C'mon. I'll get you a doughnut." He winks before grabbing my hand and leading me outside his room.

From what I've seen in movies this isn't how one-night stands usually go. One usually slips off while the other is sleeping, and if they get caught they lie and say they're getting coffee or they have a thing to do, but never do they leave together, holding hands, on their way to get doughnuts.

It's cold outside, so we sit in his car for a few minutes, waiting for the heat to kick in. His car smells like him. And leather. And a Febreze air-freshener. And considering how messy his room was, clothes strewn about - probably from last night - I'm surprised at how clean his car is.

I kick off my shoes and curled up in my seat, silently looking out the window until something compels me to ask, "Just out of curiosity: do your parents care that you bring random girls home from parties, or do they just let you do whatever?"

"You're really condescending for some random girl who came home with me from a party last night." That damn smirk again.

I fold my arms and look out the window again until the car starts to move, and he says, "To be honest, it's rare that that actually happens."

"But it happens," I accuse, and he chuckles.

He's mysterious, and the way he speaks is calculated, like he knows exactly how he should word everything to be just vague enough. But still there is an openness about him that I didn't expect but that still needs to be deciphered as if in his vagueness he is giving away just enough for me to figure him out.

"Giving Up the Gun" starts playing softly from his speakers.

"You listen to Vampire Weekend?"

"Mhm."

"I didn't think someone like you would listen to Vampire Weekend. They're so obscure and subtly complex. Like, 'Giving Up the Gun' is like the ultimate ode to youth and the romanticizing of the past."

"Someone like me? You know, you might have a monopoly on pretentiousness, but that doesn't mean you have a monopoly on good music."

"I am not pretentious!" I whip around to look at the boy who is now full on laughing at me. He thought he had me figured out, that he knew which buttons to push to elicit the response he wanted. Joke's on him because I won't let him get to me.

"Do you listen to the radio?"

"Of course not!" I almost cut him off. "The radio is full of mainstream garbage that's just popular for the sake of being popular. There's no real lyricism, no purpose, no -"

I can tell he's smirking at me again, but I refuse to look at him. "No, I don't," I grumble before looking out the window.

I still don't know what to say to this kid. I know nothing about him except that he brings random girls home from parties occasionally, and he's driving me home and buying me doughnuts. Hell, I don't even know his name. Or what happened last night, why I left the party with him, nothing.

The car stops in front of a ninety-nine cent store, and I'm confused for a minute. I thought ninety-nine cent stores were extinct.

"Are you coming?" the boy asks. The car is parked, and he's already gotten out and begun to cross the street. "I'm not leaving you with the keys, so I don't know how you'll stay warm," he smiles. I chew on my lip and consider my options. It's a bit of a walk, but I know there's a train station about a half of a mile away. But I didn't wear a heavy enough jacket last night because I had the luxury of Christian's car. I could at least let the boy drive me to the train station since he's so hellbent on helping me anyway. I decide I'll do that as I look both ways before crossing the street to join the boy. He starts walking, and I follow him down the cracked sidewalk, wondering why I feel some odd sense of trust in the stranger.

I'm wondering if I should ask him his name when he pulls open the door of some hole in the wall that looks kind of sketchy from the outside, but has warmth and bakery smells radiating from within, reminding me just how cold I am. I look to him, and his expression tells me to go in. It's tiny, but its small size gives it a homey feeling, and the old man behind the counter greets us with a sweet smile.

The boy walks up to the counter and starts saying something to the old man while I stand near the exit, trying to go unnoticed, and before I know it I'm being gently ushered back into the unforgiving cold.

I watch the boy walking next to me, a brown paper bag in hand, not looking uncomfortable at all, seemingly not a care in the world. His lips are moving, but I have no idea what he's talking about. "I don't get you," I admit.

"What do you mean?" he furrows his brow.

"I don't get you, this, whatever this is." He genuinely seems confused, which is perplexing to me considering mine is a natural reaction to waking up in the bed of a strange boy who I didn't know before yesterday but who casually offered to buy me doughnuts and take me home.

"I just offered to take you home."

"Yeah, but why? I don't even know you!"

"Because it's cold, and I figured this beats freezing your ass off on a train. Why are you being so hostile? I'm trying to be nice to you."

"Why do you feel so obligated to be nice to me? You have to have some kind of ulterior motive."

He was quiet for a second, and I smirk while folding my arms. I'd finally got him. I had found him out. He can't smooth talk his way out of this one.

And just when I think I had won, he begins laughing. It starts as a low snicker and then it grows slowly until it becomes this full-on, hearty laughter that confuses the hell out of me.

"What?" I ask, annoyed. "WHAT?"

He shakes his head and starts toward the car. "Nothing," he snickers. "You're just worse off than I thought."