Gavin and Roxanne ✔️

EIGHT

When I'm finally roused from my slumber by the sunlight seeping in through my blinds, it takes me a few minutes to remember what day it is. Where I am. Who I am.

The details of the last eighteen hours or so trickle back into my brain, methodically arranging themselves into coherent memories like pieces in a game of Tetris.

But then I sit up in my bed, and a searing bolt of agony shoots through my head as though someone took a sledgehammer to my temple.

Oh, right. I did have a few drinks last night.

The intense throbbing lasts for only a minute or two, eventually subsiding into a persistent dull pain. Honestly, as hangovers go, it feels pretty bearable – I've had far worse. A shot of espresso and a couple of ibuprofen should send it on its way.

As my head clears, last night's events come into sharper focus. The Tetris pieces are falling in more quickly now.

A last-minute invitation from Jeremy. Dinner at Ruggiero's. A couple of glasses of wine.

Lively, stimulating conversation. Camaraderie. Laughter. Coffee with Irish cream.

Roxanne.

A freak rainstorm and a shared umbrella. An offer of a ride home. My hand on her thigh, our fingers interlaced. Nightcaps at my place. An emotional connection, innermost feelings shared. And then...

My body warms all over as I recall everything that came after that, and my face can't resist breaking into a giddy smile. It's all beyond surreal, like a decadent dream – a decadent dream that actually happened.

And it's not over yet. Maybe now she's up for a morning snuggle, perhaps more if I'm lucky. I glance to my left, expecting to see Roxanne curled up tightly in the blanket, half asleep, her blond tresses spread across the pillow, delightfully messy.

But the spot next to me is empty. The blankets have been smoothed out and the pillow fluffed, neatly set in its place – almost as if she hadn't been there at all.

It did actually happen, right?

Instinctively, I spring out of bed and to my feet – quickly enough to trigger another jab of pain at the sides of my head. I close my eyes and cover my face with a hand, massaging my forehead in an attempt to rub out the fatigue and the hangover. It takes a little longer for the pounding in my head to return to a tolerable level. I think I'll be adding an ice pack to my coffee and Advil.

I wander from one end of my apartment to the other, hoping there's a chance Roxanne is still around. Maybe she's in the shower again? I listen for running water – there's nothing but silence. No one in the second bedroom, which I've made into a combination of a practice room, workout space, and office. The kitchen is empty. Not a soul in the living room or out on the balcony.

It's clear now that Roxanne has left – but I realize we never bothered to exchange phone numbers, so I can't exactly call or text to check in on her. How is she feeling? Did she get enough sleep? Was she able to drive herself? I'm more than a little concerned as I head back to my bedroom to get dressed for the day and figure out my next move. It's then that I spot a neatly-folded sheet of paper from a yellow legal pad, resting innocently atop the pillow on the far side of my bed. I must have looked right past a few minutes ago – the paper nearly blends in with the cream-colored pillowcase.

I pick it up gingerly, unfolding it with great care, as though I'm opening a Christmas present while trying to preserve the wrapping paper. The note smells faintly of Roxanne's perfume; I can't resist bringing it up to my nose and inhaling deeply. The words are handwritten in blue ink, in immaculate cursive. But then I'd expect nothing less from her.