Midnight Muse

Slate appears suddenly beside us, reaching between Ace and I for that damned tube of blue paint. For someone so large, I’m not sure how he moves so silently.

I startle back a step and run into a solid frame behind me. Peering over my shoulder, I swallow harshly when Knox’s intent green gaze locks on mine.

Great, it’s a party over here now.

“I would’ve said dickhead, but that’s just me,” Slate supplies, overhearing the tail end of our conversation. Ace rolls his eyes and I laugh as I shift subtly away from Knox, accepting Ace’s apology with a nod and a soft smile in return. It feels nice to be on the good side of two of my neighbors. Now I just need to find common ground with Knox and half of my worries will be gone.

Ace snatches our palettes as I grab my wine glass for something to hold onto. Knox’s abrupt appearance has unsettled me. All we’re missing is Rory and?—

There she is, grabbing my hand with a tipsy grin and dragging me over to the bar. My saving grace, this girl, and she doesn’t even know it. I’m sure we’re all about three seconds from getting kicked out of this class if we don’t return to our seats, but I don’t think any of us care all that much.

Glancing over my shoulder once more, I find Knox’s eyes still on me while Ace and Slate turn to make their way back to their seats.

I can’t fight the shiver that crawls up my spine at his piercing gaze.

I register the ding of my phone in the distance and I groan, reaching out blindly for it. It must be nearby if the alert had been that loud, slicing through my unconsciousness like a hot blade through butter.

My knuckles rap against the edge of the coffee table and I grunt, clutching my aching fingers to my chest. Peeling my eyes open, I blink blearily until my living room comes into focus.

I must have fallen asleep sometime between Rory leaving for her study group and after Knox’s music had started up again next door. It’s less loud than it would be if I was in my room, but the song strums a much lighter tune than his usual playlist. It must have helped lull me into a slumber, my hangover from last night still vignetting the corners of my mind.

Somehow, after my nap, I feel both better and worse. Less like I got hit by a truck and more like maybe it was only my foot that had been run over instead.

Or, my knuckles.

My phone dings again and this time, I’m able to reach it without injuring myself. There aren’t many new notifications; one from Slate who tagged me in a picture on Instagram, and by the thumbnail in the corner of the notification I don’t even want to open that. There’s an excess number of messages from Ace, who, after I accepted his apology, thought it necessary to request to add me on every social media platform he could find me on.

I roll my eyes at that.

There’s also a message from my dad, another handy-dandy YouTube link, and he’s telling me to watch this video on how to snake the shower drain. Ew.

Maybe Rory and I can start a new trend of shaved heads instead.

I’d had a surprisingly good time at Tipsy Canvas last night, drinking wine and painting our sad beach scenes. Well, mine wasn’t the worst, but it definitely wasn’t the best with two painting majors in our group. Even Knox’s had looked amazing. Slate’s and mine looked like we spent most of our time drinking instead of painting, which, in all honesty is the truth, but still.

The final message I see is a text from Reid that says:

Reid:

On my way, be there in 20.

“Fuck,” I grunt, shoving myself up from the couch. I squint through bleary eyes to read the time. 6:45. Only fifteen minutes until Reid said he’d be arriving.

When I stand, I’m thankful that the room doesn’t spin as much as it did this morning when I was getting ready to go to class—total win to have made it out of bed at all—but I still stumble on my way into my room.

I may have been a little ambitious when I told Reid he could come over to my place to work on our projects for drawing class together, but I also hadn’t been four bottles of wine deep with my friends when we initially made the arrangements.

And I’d stupidly told him that I would cook us dinner, which, along with my entire existence, I’m regretting right now.

Muttering reassurance to myself, I rifle through the dresser for something more appropriate than my current garb, a t-shirt two sizes too big and my favorite cotton pants that have more holes in them than Swiss cheese.

It’s a nostalgic save, but these pants have gone through so much with me and I’m comfortable as fuck, so no, I won’t be getting rid of them until they can no longer cover my coochie.

I opt for a pair of comfortable jeans and a plain t-shirt instead, shoving it over my mussed hair as I trip over to my dresser, plucking my hairbrush from the top. I wince as it catches in my locks but I power though it until there are no more knots, twisting it up into a clip as I assess myself in the mirror hanging off of the back of my door.

I look like…hell to put it nicely. There are purple circles beneath my eyes and it looks like my cat nap hasn’t helped. Mascara still lines the bottoms of my lashes from where I hadn’t taken it off properly in my haste to fall into bed last night, and my bright eyes have a dull edge of tiredness to them.

Quickly, I scrub my face clean. I’d rather be late with dinner than look like even more of a mess than I feel. I don’t need my image reflecting what’s surely going to be my project soon, something not as put together as I try to come across as. I’ve already decided to make a simple meal that will hopefully impress Reid, and I’m sure with how nice he is, he won’t mind or mention otherwise.