Where am I and what the hell happened?

My sticky eyelashes flutter against each other. I'm blinking, and it seems like the only thing I can do while I try to make sense of the blurry world around me.

A pair of silver-framed glasses are perched on an arched nose and a long face—Dad.

"Abby," I read his lips. The authority he is radiating makes me blink harder. Where is the shy, anxious man I've known my entire life?

"Dad?" My voice sounds weird, as if we're underwater. I reach up to touch the spot under my ear where my jaw meets my skull, then wince in pain.

I'm sitting in a chair.

Have I walked here? How?

One of my high heels is missing. I kick the other one off too, and take in a deep breath. The carpet isn't as soft as it seemed after all. Feels like my soles are resting on a bed of cheap, steel dish scrubbers.

The ballroom lights are on, shimmering into my eyes. The party must be over... There's a loud ringing in my ears and people talking in the distance.

Dad's stern face is getting clearer in front of me. I try to focus on his gray eyes as they examine my blues. He gently lifts my chin to inspect my jaw, and ear.

"What happened?" I blurt out. "Is Nate okay?"

"He is with Dean Pitri." Dad nods over his shoulder toward the dance floor. I follow his gaze to the dean and his wife who are huddled around Nate, blocking him from my view. A first aid kit is wide open between them.

I grip my chair to stand, but Dad grabs my hands and holds me back.

"He'll be fine." Dad sounds calm and assuring. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," I reply, fixing my gaze on Nate's shiny black shoes. If only the crowd moved so I could see his face. "Is he... Does he need stitches? Should we take him to the hospital?" I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of him, but a waiter gets in the way this time and bends over to hand Nate a bag of ice.

Move, dude!

He doesn't! All I see is the waiter's ass crack.

Great. Now a couple of ladies have joined the group too, and I can't even see Nate's feet.

Is that blood on the floor? "Why isn't anyone calling an ambulance—"

"He's okay, Abby," Dad assures. "We are in a room full of doctors. He doesn't need stitches, but he might need to see a dentist tomorrow."

I let out a sigh of relief and sink back into my seat. My head still feels foggy. Why does my jaw hurt so much? Did Roman... Did he really...hit me? My heart throbs in my chest. It was an accident, right? I swallow hard, licking my dry lips. "Where's... Umm... Is Roman...?"

Dad lowers his head. "I'm not sure. I heard someone say his mom and fiancé took him home."

Before I can nod or say anything, the crowd around Nate clears, and I finally see his swollen face. Without losing another second, I jump up, run to him, and kneel by his side. "Are you okay?" God, please let him be okay...

My fingers gently graze his neck. He is holding an ice pack over one eye, trying to focus on my face with the other. His lower lip is puffed and getting bigger by the second. There's a dark bruise on his cheek, and blood stains around his shirt... But he seems fine...

...until he turns his head and gives me a lopsided grin.

I gasp and cover my mouth. He is missing a front tooth!

"Hey, Abby," he says, sparks dancing in his eyes. "Where were we?" His gaze falls to my lips as he slowly leans in for a kiss. "Ouch! Ow!" Nate jerks back and touches his lip. He's scowling at his fingers as if they're to blame.

Dean Pitri closes the first aid kit, shooting me a glare. "I gave him something strong for the pain. You guys should take him home," he says. When I blink in confusion, he rolls his eyes and nods toward Nate. "He can't drive. You're his girlfriend, right? Take him home."

"I'm not—" I start to explain, but then shake my head. It doesn't matter. "Right. Thanks, Dr. Pitri."

Slipping under Nate's arm, I help him up. God, he is heavy. Nate leans on me as we shuffle over to the table by the dance floor where Dad's sitting with his head in his hands.

"Dad...?" I beg him with my eyes.

Dad glances at Nate and sighs. Then he nods, and stares at his feet. After fixing his hair, he finally stands up, and slides under Nate's other arm. "We'll talk in the morning," he says, and helps me guide this dizzy giant out of the ballroom.

***

Our car glides smoothly down the empty highway to Philadelphia like it's coated in butter.

A butter within speed limits.

Nate's been mumbling next to me in the back seat for the last hour. Good thing, he doesn't seem too bothered by his busted tooth or the bruises. He is busy wrapping his arms around my shoulders, trying to steal random kisses from my face. I'm willing to let him, but every time we get too close, he bursts into laughter, jerks back, and knocks his head against the window.

What did Dean Pitri give him? And can I have some too?

By the time we pull into our driveway, it's past midnight, and I'm pretty sure Nate's got fresh bruises on his forehead from the ride. I can't help but chuckle as Dad and I carry him up the stairs.

"Center him, Abby!" Dad warns with a red face, glaring at me from under Nate's arm. "We don't want him crashing into walls. He has a thick head, but—Abby! Center him!"

I pull Nate's waist before his head bangs against the wall, snorting out a laugh. I know it's not fun, but come on! It is funny.

Finally, we make it to my bedroom. Dad and I let out a long sigh as Nate takes a couple of steps toward the bed, shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the floor. Poor Dad takes a napkin from his pocket, and starts wiping the sweat off his forehead.

"You okay?" I ask him, but before Dad can answer, Nate spreads his arms wide open and sprawls face-first onto the mattress.

Dad squeaks, shaking my arm. I gasp, and we rush to roll Nate over. Nate's muffled laughter grows louder as he flips onto his good side.

I know Dad hates this, but I can't stop giggling. Nate looks stupid with that toothless smile.

"I'll grab some ice," Dad says, wiping his flushed face once more, then exits the room. His footsteps creak down the stairs and fade away.

I sit on the edge of the bed near Nate's knees with a sigh. Now that I think about it, I've never shared this bed with anyone. Sure, I've had sleepovers at my friends' houses, but not here. Not in this bed.

The twenty-five year old me knows that Dad won't mind Nate spending the night in my room, but the teenager in me wants to run downstairs and assure him that nothing's going to happen.

"Thank you," Nate whispers, and I catch his glowing greens roaming around my features.

Is he serious? He just got beat up because of me, and he is thanking me? The biggest asshole in the world? Is there even a proper apology besides, "I'm sorry?"

Nate chuckles and closes his eyes. His breathing evens out in no time, and his hand slips off the bed.

I push back the unruly strands of his hair from his forehead. He's got a black eye, scratches and bruises on his cheekbone, and his swollen lip looks like it's cut in the corner. My heart sizzles as I kiss the tip of my finger and run it between his brows. Nate didn't deserve any of this.

After placing his hand back on his chest, I change into my pajamas and head to the bathroom. By the time I'm out, an icepack is resting on Nate's eye—Dad must have put it there. I climb onto the bed and lie next to my friend.

What the fuck happened tonight? Images of Roman and Nate fighting on the floor rain down my eyes and hurt my heart. Roman's face, all red, and squirmed with rage... I've never seen such hate in someone's eyes before. I try to block the memories and focus on the shadows dancing on the ceiling.

The wind outside is shaking my window with soft rustles. Nate's deep breathing reminds me of the bass of the song we've danced to earlier. I finally smile... Where have I heard this song? As my mind wanders across calmer waters, I pull the duvet hanging down my side around me, and close my eyes...

...but then snap them open when the bed squeaks. 

Is Nate choking? I sit up to find him on his knees, trying to remove his bowtie. I kick the duvet away and hurry to his side.

"Let me," I whisper, steering his hands away from his neck. The black fabric seems to be tightly knotted around his collar. I try to untangle it with my nails, but when Nate growls in pain, I resort to biting the bowtie. And voila! It's off.

As I stand on my knees in front of him, Nate stares at me with blank eyes. His gaze slowly falls to my lips, then traces the outlines of my breasts over my white t-shirt.

"Hey!" I call and snap his attention back into my eyes. "Not gonna happen, buddy."

"Doesn't matter. You wouldn't remember... Memory girl... The best sex of your life..." he mutters, and keeps babbling nonsense as he tries to unbutton his shirt. I chuckle and help him with the buttons. Once I'm done, Nate gets rid of the shirt and flops back onto bed. And the next thing, he is snoring.

I bite my lips to stifle my laughter, wrap the covers around me and lay next to him... But in what feels like a heartbeat, I'm sitting up once again.

Nate is now squirming, twisting from side to side, struggling with his belt. I roll my eyes and climb on top of him. Slapping his hands away, I straddle his legs, unbuckle his belt, and throw it onto the floor.

"Thank you," he mumbles with his eyes still shut, then moves on to unbuttoning his pants. I climb off of him when he starts kicking them off, and sends them flying onto the floor.

His blue boxers have fish prints! I can't help but smile at how cute they are. Hooking his toe into one of his socks, Nate tries to toss it away too.

I sigh, remove his socks, and lie next to him. "Done?"

"Yeah. Thanks," he replies, but he isn't quite done yet... He reaches for the glass of water on my nightstand and gulps it down—excruciatingly loud. "Aaaah." He puts the empty glass back down. The bed bounces when he digs his head into the pillow, and with a final "Aaaah" he falls asleep.

God, he's a handful. I scratch my bangs, wrap myself in the sheets, and close my eyes.

Yeah... I open them again when the bed bounces with a kick. Before I can grasp what's happening, Nate dips a hand into my sheet roll, pulls me out, and tucks me against his chest.

"It's hot," he groans. "It's so fucking hot, Abby." My cold cheek presses against his burning chest while his long legs wind around my icy ones. Rubbing his warm toes against mine, he grunts. "This feels good."

Does he have a fever? I touch his forehead, but it feels cool. And my room isn't hot... It's five in the morning in fucking December, and the wind is howling outside while rain slams against my window. Trust me, my room is anything but hot.

Biting down my words, I rest my head against Nate's chest. His skin is smooth—must have shaved his chest hair recently. I can't help but smile against where his heart beats. He is right. This is nice.

Wrapping my arm around his waist, I close my eyes, and finally, we sleep until the morning.