I Object [gxg]

16. The Morning After: Best Pizza Ever Edition

The click of the doorknob wakes me up the next morning. I've always been a light sleeper, when I'm not hungover, and I sit bolt upright, staring at the knob with wide eyes as it turns. I reach for my phone beside the bed, holding it like a weapon instead of using it to call someone.

I'm being robbed. I'm—

"Nessa?"

No. I'm not Nessa. But Nessa is staring at me from the other side of the door as it swings open.

"Why do you look like you're going to try and clobber me with your iPhone?" she asks cautiously.

I let out a breath. "I thought you were a burglar."

She laughs, dragging her suitcase inside. "What did you take last night?" she asks.

"I'm not high," I mutter. "Just didn't sleep well."

That's the truth. I felt guilty after running out on Amy, and guilty about feeling guilty, and half excited for Nessa to come home in the morning and half dreading it. Looking at her now feels a little bit like sacrilege. Like coming home to your partner one day and saying, "I don't love you anymore." That love, however painful, has been my only constant companion for the last five years, and the possibility that it's ebbing away is unsettling.

I'm a hypocrite. Pushing for change in the world and cringing away from it in my world.

"Could've fooled me," Nessa comments, and I look up, blinking. What are we even talking about?

"How was your trip?" I stammer, tripping over my own tongue as I pull myself up to the head of my bed and lean against the wall.

Nessa flops down at my feet. "Exhausting," she groans. "Celebrating St. Patty's Day in an Irish family?"

"Half of campus is probably just as shot right now," I say through déjà vu.

She rolls onto her side, staring up at me through her eyelashes. "True."

I gaze back, my eyes losing focus until all I can really make out is the crown of fire she always wears. Like a formidable queen. I still love her. I can't not. But it feels...different, now.

"Do you believe in soulmates?" I ask randomly.

Nessa lifted herself up on her elbows her curiosity piqued. "Did you meet someone last night?" she asks like a detective smelling a lead.

"No," I say quickly, even as Connor's comment about checking out the bartender flickers through my mind. "I was just curious."

"Ooookay," she says slowly, doing nothing to hide her suspicion. "I mean, I guess I do."

I nod absently.

"Do you?" she returns the question.

"No." I don't even think about my answer. It's as automatic as loving her has been all these years.

Was what I felt even really love? Because its counterpart—hating Connor—has come equally as easily. What kind of love bears hate? What kind of love makes you such a horrible person?

"Okay," Nessa brings me back to earth abruptly. "Whatever you got at that party last night must have been one hell of a trip. Why don't we order a pizza? I'm starving."

"That sounds amazing," I admit as my stomach growls. And I actually mean it this time. "I'm going to take a shower."

I grab my shower caddy and trudge down the hall. How is the morning after last night a bigger crash than any of the times I've been hungover?