When Sydney Sherwood was thirteen, she fell in love. She was utterly enamoured with Carter Pearson - the cute, enigmatic, brilliant fourteen year old who lived across the street. But, after only a few months, Carter and his family disappeared, leavi...
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Sunlight streamed into the room, bright behind my eyelids. I rolled over so that my face was in the shade before slowly opening my eyes. It was the first time in a while I'd woken without an alarm, and it felt a little weird. Then, I realised it was more than just the lack of my phone's shrill alarm tone that made something feel off. My arm was tucked over the covers, but they were dark blue, not my familiar pale grey pattern. This was not my bed.
Startled, I scrambled to sit up. Next to me, still fast asleep, was Carter. We'd never spent the whole night together before before. How did I end up here? I was a little relieved to register that I was at least dressed, albeit in what I presumed was one of Carter's t-shirts on top of my underwear. Once I'd recovered from the initial confusion, I became aware of the throbbing in my head. Things began to make sense, coming back to me in fragments.
I looked down at Carter. His hair was ruffled, mouth slightly open. Remembering everything I'd learned last night, my heart ached. My Dad was a cheater, his Dad was abusive. And I loved him, more than ever. This was the boy I loved, next to me in bed. Oblivious.
I reached out and grazed my thumb across his cheekbone, so tenderly that I barely touched him.
Not wanting to wake him, I moved carefully as I climbed out of bed, thankful that I'd apparently fallen asleep on the outside. Standing up made my head rush. I wasn't a big drinker, but I was experienced enough to recognise a hangover, and this was a killer one. I spotted a glass of water on Carter's bedside table, which I gulped down quickly. My bag was in the corner of the room, so I made a beeline to it and was relieved to find a packet of chewing gum inside so that I could get rid of the awful taste in my mouth. Unsure of what to do next - I couldn't see the clothes I'd been wearing last night and I really didn't fancy doing a walk of shame in nothing but Carter's Bengals shirt - I sat down on the chair at his desk.
Vaguely, I recalled the events of last night. How I'd burst into tears, then insisted to Carter that I wanted to go out and get drunk. He'd taken me to a bar where he knew "a guy", hence the hangover despite the fact I was still underraged in this country. I remembered kissing Carter, multiple times, not caring that he had friends there who could see us. In a way, I'd wanted them to see - that he was mine and I was his, whether we put a label on what we were or not.
Now, in the cold light of day, I couldn't imagine being so brazen in public. Everyone knew Carter and his reputation, so did I really want to take pride in being another one of his girls?
In bed, Carter made a faint murmuring noise and rolled over so that I could no longer see his face. A mortifying thought occurred to me: what if, in a bout of drunken candor, I'd spilled my feelings to him? Even just accidentally admitting that I liked him had been totally unsuccessful; there was no way he'd deal well with a declaration of love six years in the making.
But, surely, if I had said something, I wouldn't have later ended up in his bed. Not that I had any idea how that had happened; beyond drinking many shots and the kissing at the bar, my memory became increasingly hazy.
