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And why I feel like I do.

At first, I draw a blank. But the longer I lie here, the more I start to remember.

The football game. Bennett. His mug filled with scotch.

Wyatt. My failed marriage. My father.

The bar. More scotch. Joshua.

I force my eyes open, squinting against the light as my surroundings gradually come into focus.

The bed beneath me definitely isn’t mine. Neither are the walls. Or the curtains.

Maybe I took Bennett up on his offer to stay with him.

But then I look out the window and see my parents’ house.

I shoot upright, then regret it when my stomach rolls. After a few calming breaths, I look down, relieved to see I’m at least dressed. Except I’m not wearing my clothes. Nope. I’m wearing a shirt with the Holley Ridge logo on it and a pair of shorts that are way too big.

“Oh, God.” I drop my head into my hands, praying I didn’t do something stupid.

Given how much I drank last night, I can’t rule it out. I’d already consumed more alcohol at the football game than I had in months. Then I went to a bar after telling my parents about Wyatt and drank even more.

After that, the details are fuzzy.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and somehow manage to find the strength to stand, wavering slightly on my feet. When I touch a hand to the nightstand for balance, I notice a few acetaminophen tablets and a glass of water.

I stare at them, wondering how they got there. Maybe I had the forethought last night to anticipate waking up with a hangover and left them out.

I doubt that’s the case.

Regardless of how they got here, I take the pills and wash them down with the entire glass. Then I carefully pad into the bathroom and turn on the faucet, splashing warm water onto my face.

As I pat my skin dry with a towel, I spy a toothbrush and travel-size toothpaste on the counter. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to brush my teeth as badly as I do right now.

I rip open the toothbrush packaging and squeeze some toothpaste onto it, brushing my teeth longer than usual.

With my mouth refreshed, I return to the bedroom and find the sweater dress I wore last night draped over a chair. I don’t remember doing that. Then again, I don’t remember a whole lot about last night.

I quickly change, make the bed, then fold the T-shirt and shorts I slept in, setting them neatly on the mattress before heading toward the door. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Joshua won’t be home.

But then I open the door, and the scent of bacon greets me.

I can still try to sneak out. The stairs lead to the living room in the front of the house. If I’m quiet enough, I can escape without confronting last night’s bad decision head-on.

Pushing the door wider, I tiptoe into the hallway. When a floorboard creaks, I freeze, not breathing as I listen for any movement.

After several seconds pass with no approaching footsteps or someone calling my name, I continue down the stairs, wincing with every tiny groan of the old hardwood.

At the bottom of the stairs, I peer around the corner toward the kitchen. I can’t see Joshua, but I can hear him. Cabinet doors opening. A pan sizzling. Christmas music playing softly through a speaker.

Assuming he’s preoccupied with cooking breakfast, I hurry toward the front door and grab my boots, not bothering to put them on. Right now, escape is my priority. Then I’ll figure out a way to avoid Joshua for the rest of my life so I don’t have to face the fact that I got drunk and slept with my neighbor.

Although, if I did sleep with him, wouldn’t I be sore? At least between my legs? But I’m not. No soreness. No discomfort. Nothing.

Maybe it wasn’t any good. Or maybe he’s not that big.

I seriously doubt it, though. I saw him in his gym shorts yesterday morning. There was definitely a bulge. A very noticeable bulge.