For All You Have Left

Chapter Fourteen Sleepover

I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake up to a guy making pancakes on some show on TV. The light from the television is bright, and it forces my eyes shut. But when I feel warm breaths on my neck, my eyes shoot open again. And the first thing I notice is Jorgen’s arm wrapped around my waist. Then, one by one, the details come rushing back to me. We talked for a long time after dinner about everything and nothing simultaneously — everything from our favorite holiday to our least favorite Smurf. His were Groundhog Day and Gargamel. And even after I pointed out that Gargamel wasn’t a Smurf, he still picked Gargamel. I remember our silly conversations, but I don’t remember falling asleep.

I lie as still as possible, while I try to plot out my next move in my head. He’s still sleeping. I don’t want to wake him, but I’m lying on my arm and it’s completely asleep. And I’m not so sure I really want to be here when he wakes up either. It would be weird. Right? I barely know him. And what if he’s weirded out? That would be even worse. And what if he smells my morning breath? Nope. That settles it. I’ve got to get out of here.

I carefully reach for my phone on the coffee table with the hand that’s not fast asleep and press a button. All at once, its light fills the small space around us, and I panic and instinctively cover the screen with my other hand. Oh Mylanta! I’m screaming on the inside. A thousand tiny needles are suddenly stabbing my sleepy arm.

I grimace and lose a breath, but Jorgen doesn’t stir. He seems to be unaffected by the light and my stabbing pain. I still don’t move though, at least not until I can finally shift my arm without feeling the sharp tingles.

After about a minute, the pain is bearable, and I slowly lift my hand up a little and peek at the big numbers etched across my phone’s screen. In a blinding, white glow, I read 2:30.

I clutch the phone in the palm of my hand and wait several seconds before carefully picking up his wrist with my two fingers and slowly sliding out from underneath his arm. His face shifts, and it stops me cold. I wait until he settles back into the throw pillow before I craftily stand up and turn back toward him to see if he’s still asleep. He is, and he looks perfect — peaceful, manly, sexy, perfect — and it makes me want to crawl right back under his arm, but I don’t. Instead, I grab the blanket at his feet, and I pull it to his shoulders and rest it gently against him. He is a beautiful creature. I wonder for a second how he got onto my couch, how he got into my life. I’m in awe of him in a way — in a way that I can’t quite explain yet. I mean, besides the attractive part, which he’s got down pretty well, he’s got this way about him that makes me feel so comfortable around him even though I barely know him.

He shifts on the couch, and I instantly hold my breath as I watch him grab the blanket, settle deeper into the leather and gradually grow still again before my eyes catch the remote sitting on the coffee table. I quietly reach for it and turn off the TV. Then, I stand there for a good minute, maybe longer, trying to figure out if I really do need to go to my bed. I think about it — hard — before I finally decide I should. I take one last look at him and silently sigh. I’m already kicking myself for leaving him as I slowly tiptoe out of the living room and to my bedroom. In the dark, I shimmy off my clothes, throw on my sweatshirt and boxers, slide under the covers and close my eyes. Somehow, I just know I’m going to regret this in the morning.

My alarm clock nearly gives me a heart attack, just like it does every morning. I turn over and let my hand fall heavy onto its top button until it’s quiet again.

It’s another minute before I finally crack one eye open and probably another five before I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Immediately, I feel the soft carpet under my bare toes, and one big yawn later, I’m on my feet.

My little apartment is draped in darkness, which doesn’t really matter because my eyes are barely open anyway. Good thing my walk is only one straight stretch.

Ten. Eleven.

I swing open the door, snatch up the morning paper and squeeze the rubber band off. The rubber band habitually slides onto my wrist as I open the newspaper to the last page. I shake the black and white sheets once to make them stiffen. Then, I swing around to the other side of the door and push my back against it until I hear it latch.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

I drop the paper and let out a terrified, high-pitched scream. There’s a man on my couch, and it takes me a second before I realize who it is.

“Jorgen,” I finally say, once I’ve caught my breath. I’m literally panting as he sleepily sits up, wincing — no doubt from my Oscar-worthy scream.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No. I just…forgot you were here.”

“Did we fall asleep?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

“I think so.” I reach down and pick up the paper.

“Did you…sleep here?” he asks, eyeing the couch.

I nod my head. “For a little while. But then I went to my room.”

He looks kind of disappointed. “Well, I guess I better be gettin’ home so you can get ready for work.”

He stands up and walks over to me but then stops with only a foot between us. He’s so close that I can smell his sweet cologne again.

“Last night was…,” he says and then pauses, seeming to be searching for the right word.

“Nice,” he finishes.

He opens the door but then slowly turns back toward me and steals a glance at me through hooded eyes. “That outfit really does look good on you.”

I look down and notice my bare legs with the boxers nearly nonexistent. And instinctively, I roll my eyes and send him a playful smirk. But before I can even attempt anything resembling a comeback, he disappears behind the door, leaving me to my newspaper and my newfound giddy smile.