5. Aubree

It’s all slow and fuzzy when I first wake up, which isn’t uncommon for the morning after a Sunday night out. It all depends on how the game goes. If it’s a close one, with lots of tension and shouting, I can still feel it in my muscles the day after. But something is off. I know it even before I’m aware I’m unfortunately hungover.

It’s not the lingering effects of too many shots that’s making me feel heavy and sated, though.

Since when did my blankets have this much weight to them?

It only takes one weak stretch to feel another person under the sheets. With wide eyes and a quick glance around Jackson’s living room, all of last night tumbles into my memory.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

It comes back all at once, and the shock feels like a shot glass slamming down on the bar. Jackson. I came home with Jackson last night.

It’s futile to pull the sheet up against my bare chest as I stare down at his naked form. How the hell did we both sleep on his couch?

I did more than sleep on this sofa.

The cushion groans slightly and I slow my movements as I attempt to slip out, still very much naked and groggy.

Every little moment flashes back and the conflicting emotions intensify. He kissed the side of my neck in front of the entire bar. He upped the ante in the game we played for years. Was he jealous of the guys who were hitting on me? Or … I don’t know. All I know is that it became something else when I kissed him back.

I barely remember anything about the ride home. All I remember is his mouth on mine, the deep murmurs and lust-filled groans. And how warm his body felt against mine.

Last night was better than I ever imagined it would be. The morning after, though? Well, there’s a reason I’ve never dreamed of this moment.

Bottom line: we crossed a big red line last night in front of everyone. That truth is a flashing bright light in my face as I tiptoe across the living room in search of my underwear.

Sex with your best friend’s brother is a no-no. I can already see the look of shock on Cheryl’s face. I can already imagine how awkward our group outings with friends will be.

Blood drains from my face and the regret slips in.

I never meant to take it this far.

My heart pounds as I stand paralyzed, clinging to Jackson’s navy blue comforter which is pressed against my chest. His living room is neat and masculine in the pale early morning sun filtering through the blinds. Apart from our clothes from last night strewn across the carpeted floor.

Eventually, I take in Jackson’s sleeping form. His firm—and bare—ass is fully on display, his arm hanging over the edge of the sofa. He’s dead to the world and guiltily I lay the comforter across him. His face is turned toward the back of the sofa, and his other arm is tucked under his pillow in a way that shows off his muscular frame. Broad shoulders rise and fall with every deep breath. Just as I feel a touch of ease, he mumbles something I can barely hear and I freeze. A beat passes and then another.

All the while, the slight chill in the room skims across my nakedness.

Clothes. For the love of all things holy. Where are my clothes?

It doesn’t take long to spot them, but each quiet moment comes with a hint of regret.

Why does Cheryl have to have the hottest brother in the history of the world? It’s not fair. That’s what I’ve told myself for so long now. It’s not fair, because I can never be with him.

Except I have been with him. We were together last night. He wanted me to come home with him, and I said yes, and now …

Now I have to get out of here.

Part of me wants to touch his shoulder, wake him up, and give him a repeat performance. To fake it until we make it, so to speak.

A big part of me, actually. Most of me. I want to feel his body against mine again. He was powerful and confident over me in a way that no other man has been. At the same time, he was familiar. Safe. Jackson knows me really well, and for good reason. We’ve been friends for years.

Oh, Aubree, what have you done?

The reality, though, is that I have morning breath, bed head, a hangover and regrets a mile long, as well as a growing list of insecurities and uncertainties. So the only faking I’ll be doing is faking that everything is okay until I am safely home and clinging to my own pillow.

I silently gather each garment like I’ve been trained by the CIA in extraction methods.

My purse dangles from one corner of the coffee table. The garments scattered around the room tell a definite story about what happened last night. Two people couldn’t get enough of each other, and they couldn’t even aim for the furniture when they took their clothes off.

Not that I need the clothes to tell me anything. I remember how amazing it felt to be in Jackson’s arms. I remember how much I wanted him. Kissing him woke something up in me. Something that’s been bubbling under the surface for way too long.

I step into my clothes quickly and quietly, then snatch my phone up from the ground. There’s a text from Cheryl. It’s from last night, about half an hour after I left the bar with Jackson.

Cheryl: You did it!! Good for you!! Which of the guys did you go home with?

I text her back with trembling hands. My pulse races as I press send.

Aubree: Don’t hate me. Jackson. I’m at Jackson’s house. I spent the night here. I’m never going to be able to look him in the eye again.

Never mind that I’ll have to look Cheryl in the eye. She’ll know I slept with her brother. She did egg me on, but it was a joke. It was all supposed to be harmless fun. My stomach does a nervous flip. I won’t be able to stand it if he walks out here all hot and handsome and plays it off like a joke.

Like it didn’t mean anything. With both hands running down my face, I wish I could just get in my car and drive away. My fingers fly across my phone ordering my escape car.

My heart pounds as I glance over my shoulder back at Jackson. I don’t think I’d be able to play it cool if he sauntered out and pretended it meant nothing.

I can see things going both ways. Next Sunday could be stiff, with us walking on eggshells and all our friends wondering what’s going on. Or it could be normal, with both of us pretending to be comfortable. Like it was just a part of the flirtatious game we play.

Or maybe …

Maybe we could be holding hands at the bar. Maybe Jackson could be there as my real boyfriend and not just a decoy for the men who wanted to buy me a drink.

The phone buzzes in my hand and I clutch it to my chest, listening hard for any sign he’s waking up. One beat passes and then another of me staring at him like a weirdo.

Without any sign he’s woken up, I check my phone.

Cheryl: It was just one night. No big deal. You guys got it out of your system ;)

Out of my system. I swallow thickly.

Reality crashes down around me. Not a soul knows about the crush. The genuine feelings I have for him. No one is going to understand and nothing is going to be all right.

What was I thinking? This isn’t the start of a new relationship. This was a one-night stand. In fact, it was a mistake.

My throat tightens. That’s exactly what Jackson will say. It was a mistake for the two of us to jump into bed together. Our friendship is too important to screw it up with emotions.

What a mess.

The only way to begin cleaning it up is to leave before he gets out of bed. As if on cue, my phone informs me the getaway car is approaching. It’s a little cowardly, I know, to run away after a one-night stand. But if that’s all it is, then it won’t be anything new. That’s what you do when things aren’t serious. You go back to your life before they get serious.

I hesitate at the door, my stomach sinking. He might worry about me when he wakes up.

Maybe I should leave a note. I half turn back to the kitchen, but stop myself.

What would the note say?

I had a nice time last night—see you at football!!

Or …

We should talk about this soon so it’s not awkward.

Or …

No hard feelings, whatever happens.

Each idea I have is worse than the last. Shit. It’s better if I don’t say anything. It’s best if I don’t look back. It’s better if I chalk it up to a tipsy mistake and leave it in the past where it belongs.

The future with Jackson has to do with friendship. Because we’re friends. Really good friends. And that’s all we’re going to be.