Finding Forever

Chapter 2

I dream a lot. My dreams are so vivid that sometimes I find it hard to decipher whether they are just dreams or actual events that happened to me. Some are easier to decipher than others; for example, if a tiger beats me in a salsa dancing competition, chances are it's a dream. But those dreams mirror current events that cause me to question their validity. If I dream, I'm mad at Maisie for borrowing my favourite shoes without asking. It could be real life.

The only time I don't dream is when I've had too much to drink. Those dreamless nights are what I like to call a blackout.

After stretching my arms across my pillows, I feel a little disoriented from my blackout.

I usually rise and shine with a dream fresh on my mind, like I've backpacked through Thailand or wrestled a grizzly bear. That's a typical morning after I decide to open my eyes and start my day. This morning is a very different experience. I feel all kinds of terrible. My head pounds fiercely against my skull, and my stomach twists and turns in a way that makes me wonder if I'll make it to the toilet should I need to puke.

The sun filters through the window and warms my cheek in my dizzy haze. I lay there in silence, trying to piece together my evening and how I even ended up at home in my bed and – wait – why am I naked? My heart is hammering wildly – and – with the pulse of adrenaline in my blood - the memories from last night hit me like a physical blow to my chest. Touching. Kissing. Pulling Ryan down the hallway and into my bedroom. Flashes of naked skin, movement, and incredibly explosive orgasms, one after another. I wince, nausea sweeping through me.

Holy. Fuck.

Panicked, I sit up too quickly, gather my sheets around my chest, and look at an empty bed and pillow beside me. Even though I am dizzy, I can release the most relieved breath. Thank God. I'm alone.

Phew. Of course, it was just a dream. I chuckle out loud into my empty bedroom. It was a very hot and satisfying dream, but it is not my current reality.

I guess it wasn't a blackout night after all.

What the hell is wrong with me though? Why would I dream I slept with Ryan?

I thump back against the headboard and stare at my ceiling, thanking the heavens that I did not sleep with my best friend. Of course, that still doesn't answer how I ended up alone and naked in my bed. But when I glance over at a pile of my clothes on the floor, I gather I was just a drunk mess and stripped down fully nude.

I take a few moments to let my heart rate lower back to normal and hope this nausea washes away with a hot cup of coffee. I move slowly off my bed and over to my closet as light shoots in through the window, causing slanted shadows to be cast across the wood flooring throughout my tiny bedroom. My vintage refurbished furniture is my absolute favourite. The furniture belonged to my grandmother and was left to me after she passed away. The dresser and end table are full of framed photographs of my family and friends back home in Oregon, including a few sporadic photos of Ryan and me, Maisie and me, and then a few more of our entire group. My walls are decorated with original and very colourful paintings I painted myself, giving a whole artistic feel to my space. Before I exit my bedroom, I throw on a baggy t-shirt that reads Allergic to Mornings, a pair of black lace panties, and warm wool socks.

It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust once I step into my brightly lit kitchen, but when they do, I let out a startled scream at the sight of Ryan digging around in my fridge. The memories from last night flood my brain again; this time, I know those memories are definitely not a dream. Ryan closes the fridge door, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. My pulse tripped in wild throbs against my neck, and I tried to calm my thoughts and survey the kitchen. The sheer reality of it all catches me off guard, and for a beat, I may collapse. I feel self-conscious in his presence for the first time since I've met Ryan. Our height difference suddenly makes me wish I wore high-heels out of my bedroom, not ugly wool socks. He's always been at least six inches taller than me and twice as wide. But as he stands in my kitchen shirtless, his tanned and muscular chest on full display with no tattoos and only marked with a scar from having his appendix removed his Senior year of high school; it has me feeling a bit faint. Even though I'd seen him shirtless a thousand times before, this time, everything was different because his shirtless body was on top, underneath, and behind mine all night long.