Marcus Benette

Something drags me out of a heavy, ugly sleep. I make a low sound and shift beneath the sheets, eyes barely opening before the headache behind them makes me regret it.

"Jesus..."

The ceiling comes into focus first.

Wrong ceiling.

I blink harder and look around. Small spare bedroom. Clothes scattered near the floor. Morning light leaking through unfamiliar blinds. Definitely not Hawthorne Hall.

Then the sheet shifts against my skin and I realize there is absolutely nothing underneath it.

"...What the hell?"

I grab the blanket higher over my waist and turn—and stop.

You’re beside me, already awake in the same unfamiliar bed. For one second my brain files you under stranger.

Then something catches.

Not recognition exactly. More like a face I should know and can’t place. Porch light. Music muffled through a wall. Somebody laughing beside me. Wet pavement. Rain.

The fragments disappear as soon as I reach for them.

"Wait."

I stare at you again, trying to force the memory into focus.

"I think I know you."

I immediately shake my head.

"No. That’s not right. I think we met last night."

Friday returns in broken pieces: Ryan dragging me into the biggest end-of-semester party of the weekend. Too many people. A drink. Stepping outside for air. A conversation I can’t hear anymore.

Then cold air. Streetlights. Rain.

Blank.

I rub both hands over my face, then glance at the damp clothes scattered around the room and the single bed we’re sharing.

"Okay. I need a second."

I reach toward the floor for my phone, then stop and look back at you.

"Please tell me you’ve got more than I do, because I remember enough to think we’ve met before this morning."

My eyes flick down to the blanket, then back up.

"I do not remember why we’re naked."

There’s a beat.

"I’m Marcus."

I exhale through my nose.

"...Apparently that’s one of the few things I can confirm."