6
NAKED IN THE DRIVEWAY
The next thing I know I’m trapped under Kyle’s arm, watching him sleep.
I can barely breathe.
It’s the weight of his arm, I figure. Or maybe the smell of him—the now-stale beer on his breath, the sweat, a whiff of restaurant mixed with day-old cologne. Or maybe it’s just that there’s a naked boy in my bed . . . and I am so thoroughly disgusted with myself.
I pry his arm off of me, escape from the bed without waking him, grab some clothes from the pile on top of my dresser, and make a beeline for my never-been-renovated, genuine vintage, mint-green-and-peach-colored bathroom. Once inside, I lock the door, brush my teeth, and take the kind of shower that would have my dad pounding on the door and threatening to turn the water off if he were home.
Finally I get out, wrap myself in a bath sheet, and stare at my foggy outline in the mirror.
I feel scorched and soiled, and I hate what I see there.
Someone who let that happen after saying it wasn’t going to happen.
Someone who didn’t even put up a fight.
Still, it’s over.
I put on deodorant, get dressed in the sweats and T-shirt I grabbed, and stick my hair up into a messy bun. Not wanting to be anywhere near Kyle, I head down to the basement with garbage and recycling bags to clean up. It doesn’t take long, and soon I’m outside the kitchen door, shoving the garbage in the garbage cans and the empty bottles in our neighbor’s recycling bin, crossing my fingers they won’t notice the addition.
Then my eyes fasten on Kyle’s truck, sitting conspicuously in the driveway.
Crap.
The early birds are starting to chirp and soon it’ll be light.
I need Kyle out of here. Now.
I rush back inside to wake him, but he won’t budge. I try poking him, rolling him, saying his name, but all that happens is he jams himself into the corner and throws an arm over his face.
Yikes. I need help.
Emma only got back from vacation yesterday, and it’s an insane time to call anyone, but I go to the front hall and grab my phone anyway.
There’s precedent for this. I went to her house in the middle of the night twice last year to help when she was having a panic attack and didn’t want to wake her parents, and we’ve always promised to be there for one another, no questions asked.
Well, she will have questions.
But she’ll save most of them for later. I hope.
I hit CALL, wait while the phone rings once, then I hang up and dial again knowing her Do Not Disturb setting lets the second call through. I’m just about to give up when she answers.
“Libby?” she whispers groggily. “What’s wrong?”
“My parents went out of town overnight, and I sort of accidentally had a small party with some of my coworkers.”
“Uh-oh. Is your house trashed?”
“No, but there’s a boy in my bed.”
She whistles. “You devil. What boy?”
“Just someone from work. He didn’t think he should drive, so I let him . . .”
have sex with me
wtf
“ . . . uh, crash here. But I need him out of here in case my parents come back early, or the neighbors notice his giant freaking truck in the driveway, but he’s dead to the world.”
“Is he breathing?”
“Dead to the world, Em, not actually dead.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
True to her word, Emma arrives, on foot, five minutes later. She looks far more alert and put together than seems fair, dressed in cute, color-coordinated tennis wear, her eyes snapping with curiosity, and only a pillow crease on her cheek giving any hint that she was fast asleep ten minutes ago.
“How drunk was he?” she whispers as we head down the hallway toward my room.
“Drunk but capable,” I say, and then feel myself flush and rush to add, “like, not stumbling around or passing out.”
“Will he be safe to drive?”
“I . . . think so?”
“Do you have his keys?”
“They’re probably in his pants pocket. Hang on.” I creep into my room, grab his pants from the floor, and drag them back into the hallway.
Emma’s eyes widen. “You didn’t mention he wasn’t wearing them!”
“Oh, yeah, um . . .” I focus hard on the pants, give them a shake, and hear something that jingles like keys. “I guess I should probably warn you: he’s not dressed.”
“You mean he’s naked?”
“Well, last time I looked he had the covers pulled up to his chest.”
Emma snorts and I shush her.
“I’m sorry,” she says, trying to stifle her laughter, “it’s just . . . the look on your face . . .”
I start to laugh too, but it turns into more of a shiver, and Emma’s amusement evaporates.
“Hey, whoa, Libby. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, holding the pants away from my body and trying not to look at them. “I’ll be fine once he’s out of here.”
“Okay, let’s get it done, then.”
I get the keys from Kyle’s pocket, hand them to Emma, and we go in. On my way to the bed I casually kick my very-obviously-discarded-on-the-floor clothing to the side, hoping she won’t notice it . . . which she does not, due to the fact that she’s now stopped in her tracks and staring, wide-eyed, at Kyle.
“Oh my,” she whispers.
Kyle is uncovered from the waist up with one leg also thrown out toward the edge of the bed and looking extravagantly debauched. I busy myself with finding the rest of his clothing, folding it neatly, and setting it on the end of the bed with the pants, and try not to look.
Meanwhile, Emma reaches over to give Kyle a gentle push, to zero effect. She tries again, and then harder, and finally gets a moan out of him. Then we both poke at him, and this time he groans, says “Piss off,” and then rolls away, putting his back to us.
“Nice manners your boy has,” Emma says.
“He’s not my boy.”
“We could just whip the duvet off,” she suggests.
I shake my head. I need him covered almost as much as I need him out of the house.
“Or douse him with cold water.” Emma leans in close and sniffs. “He still reeks of booze, Lib. You know where he lives?”