Situationship [Complete]

3 | I Do Hate You

My eyes snap open to a room I don't recognize. Slate-colored walls filled with tall windows. Dark hardwood floors span the room beneath modern, black and gray furniture. White charmeuse curtains barely block the sun glaring through the windows into the otherwise dark space. It looks like a bachelor stopped decorating halfway through and then hired someone with taste to finish the rest. Where the fuck am I?

The feel of velvet beneath me makes me look down. I'm on a couch—a huge couch—with a faux fur blanket covering me. I sit up and my head screams. Open bars are only enjoyable until the next morning. You would think I'd have learned that lesson by now.

I look around, my vision blurry with the throbbing in my head, and find the naked man on the floor next to me. The black tattoos on his arm and thigh make my heart race. "Heath?"

He groans as if to tell me to shut up.

Oh, shit. Oh, shit, shit, shit. I sit up straight and cover myself with the blanket. "Heath!" I shout.

His head darts up from his pillow. "What? Am I late?"

"Late for what, shithead? It's Sunday."

He looks over at me, his hair twisted with day-old product. "Then what the hell, Teags? Stop yelling, my head hurts." He lies his head back down as if nothing is out of place.

I nudge him with my foot. "What am I doing here?" I ask him. "Why are you naked?"

He groans again. "Chill, dude. Seriously." He sits up, pulling the blanket from his bare buttocks onto his lap. "We didn't have sex, if that's what you're asking—not that you didn't want to."

When my head stops pounding, I realize I'm still partially dressed. My hair is still pinned up, my bralette on, my Spanx still properly squeezing the life out of my midsection and thighs. Taking Spanx off is a simple job, but putting them on . . . That's either a two-person job or one person who is much more sober and dedicated to a smooth silhouette than I was last night.

"Do you remember the party? Coming home in the cab?" he asks. "Do you remember telling me to take my clothes off, or laughing yourself to sleep when I had trouble getting it up?"

"That does seem like something I'd do." The memories from last night begin to become clearer. The bar, the many, many drinks that led to my inability to walk or hold my tongue. Classic Teagan. "I need to pee."

"Bathroom's through there. Knock yourself out," he says, flopping back onto his pillow.

I get up and scramble through the door of what is apparently his bedroom. Inside is a huge bed with a jersey comforter the same dark color as the walls. It looks plush and comfortable. Why couldn't he have put me in here?

I slide the pocket door closed behind me and start tearing at my Spanx. When I finally get them off, I sit and sigh with relief. I am never putting those back on. No dress is worth that.