Did I Mention I Miss You? by Estelle Maskame

Author:Estelle Maskame
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black & White Publishing
Published: 2016-06-28T04:00:00+00:00

15

It feels like I’ve slept for no more than an hour when I wake. I feel so groggy, and my head is heavy. It’s almost impossible to open my eyes, so I squeeze them shut and pull the blanket closer to my chest. I’m starting to regret not sleeping on Saturday night, because now the mere two hours of sleep I had are catching up with me. Yet the hand that’s massaging my shoulder is persistent. It feels nice, but it’s pulling me out of my slumber, so I quickly nudge the hand away by jerking my body to one side. And if that isn’t enough to display my irritation, I also release a quiet groan.

And then there’s that familiar laugh, and I don’t even have to look to know that it belongs to Tyler. A brief wave of excitement surges through my body at the thought of him next to me, at the simple fact that he’s here, and my eyelids ping open, suddenly startled.

For the briefest of seconds, I have no idea where I am or why I’m even with Tyler, alone, until I blink a few times to wake myself up fully. That’s when everything comes back to me, and I think: Oh, Portland. It’s a rather sobering thought to wake up to.

Tyler’s crouching down by the couch, fully dressed and smelling of cologne, and he’s looking directly back at me. My face is level with his, his eyes bright.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Tyler says. His arms rest along the edge of the couch, his hands interlocked, thumbs twiddling.

Despite the fact that it feels like it’s the middle of the night, daylight is streaming through the large windows. My eyes are too sensitive, so I narrow them into slits and push myself up into a seated position. I can feel the heat on the back of my neck and the way my hair is stuck to my skin.

“What time is it?” I ask. Even my voice croaks, and I’m completely exhausted. I idly wonder if it’s possible to feel hungover without having even touched alcohol. Like a different type of hangover, like a travel hangover, or a stepbrother hangover. I feel lousy.

“Just after eight,” Tyler says slowly, and he smiles, small and crooked.

“Eight in the morning?” I blink some more, and I don’t even care that I probably look like a ferret on steroids. “On a Monday? In the summer?”

“I hate to break it you,” he says, laughing, “but the rest of us don’t get summer vacation. The rest of us have work to do.” He presses his hands against the leather of the couch and pushes himself to his feet.

“Work?”

“Of some sort.” He tilts the watch on his wrist toward him, frowning slightly. Then he looks back down at me. “What are the chances of you being ready to go within the next half-hour?”

“What sort of work?” I ask. It’s not quite the reply he’s looking for, because he heaves a sigh. I’m a little

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