Aftershock

The Agreement

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Tony

I wake up to a headache so strong I would think it's trying to split my head in two. I wipe the crust from my eyes and check the time on the watch I apparently never took off before going to bed—I also, apparently, didn't change at all. I'm still wearing my dress shirt, halfway unbuttoned and rumpled to hell, and jeans. With a belt. I had to have been hammered to sleep in goddamn jeans and a belt. It's also late; a good chunk of the day has gone by and my stomach is gurgling ominously as if to confirm that yes, I did indeed skip breakfast.

I ease myself out of bed. Reattach my arm. The world feels like it's swaying a bit, though I think that's just me. I stumble out of my bedroom and down the stairs with care, making a slow beeline to my kitchen. There are only two things on my mind: aspirin and coffee.

And then there are three, because Steve is sitting on my couch.

His legs are crossed, supporting a magazine that he's thumbing through lazily, and he's coddling a steaming cup of what I can only presume to be coffee in his other hand. He doesn't seem to have noticed my entrance, so I clear my throat, a little too loud. He jumps slightly and closes the magazine. It's a really old edition of Home and Garden. "Tony, you're awake. Good."

My head was already reeling a moment ago, and now it's spinning out. Images of the party last night, of Steve's face so close to mine, the kiss, the blurry aftermath... it all flashes in my mind and refuses to solidify. What happened after the kiss?

"I— you're— here. Huh. Um, did we...?"

"No," Steve says flatly.

"No, right, of course not, because that would be...bad? I'm unclear. Why are you here?"

Steve sets the magazine down on the coffee table along with his cup—god, I want some coffee— and stands up to face me. He's sporting some pretty serious eye-bags and pursed lips that refuse to give away their genuine expression. "I'm here because I needed to talk to you while you're sober," he says. "And I'm not about to let you ignore me for another three months." He gestures to a pile of folded linens. "I slept on your couch."

"Wow. You're one of those people who take "make yourself at home" way too literally, huh?" I say. I shake my head and instantly regret it. "Alright. Spill. Talk. But I'm getting coffee first."

"There's a fresh pot."

"Oh! Would you look at that." I caress my coffeemaker; the glass is still warm. Thank the heavens. I pour myself a mug and pop two aspirins. "I take back what I said, you can literally live here if you make coffee every morning. I can't be mad at that."

"I didn't stay overnight so I could make coffee, Tony. You know that."

I lean over the island counter. "Okay, shoot, then. What do you need from me? A non-disclosure agreement? A restraining order? Another kiss, with tongue this time? I'm open for suggestions."

"Is this a joke to you?" he snaps. "Is this all a joke to you?"

I take a long, indulgent sip before answering. "I'm not laughing."

"I can't figure you out, Tony. I really can't," he says. "I can never tell when you're flirting, or just egging me on, or when kisses actually mean something to you, because it certainly meant something to me. Meanwhile, you were drunk to the point of standing on the bar screaming Brittany Spears songs."

"To be fair, I don't have to be very drunk to do that."

Steve grabs my hand and lowers it to the counter, forcing me to set down my mug. "Okay, so how drunk do you have to be to kiss me?"