Chapter 9
I wake in my own bed, alone. I don’t know if I should be relieved or disappointed.
For long moments I lie with my eyes closed, unwilling to let go of the night before. I can still taste Joey on my lips—his is a heady flavor, more than a little alcoholic and so damn familiar, like a haunting, half-remembered tune. Beneath the covers I’m dressed but just barely; my briefs are tight where they cut into the tops of my thighs and I might be wearing an undershirt, but that’s about it. When I roll over on my side, the rustling sheets are unnaturally loud in the quiet morning. I open one eye, then the other, overly cautious, as if expecting to be hit with a headache that never comes.
On the table between the beds, the clock’s red led numbers stare back at me, unblinking. It’s not yet
