"Oh, so in this dream you do remember that night. It’s turning around."

"I was awake most of the way through it. I remember it, Elly. All I wanted to do was whisper your name."

There was some shouting on the other side of the door a few seconds before I heard it burst open. "You can't just burst in here, Jen!" My mom's voice called out.

"Kent! I'm not supposed to be jealous of this?!"

I groaned my eyes still closed, "And it just got bad again."

I felt Kent roll away from me, "This isn't what it looks like, Jen. Jesus Christ."

"No? It looks like you have a hard on in Elly's bed!"

"Oh god, Jen. I tried, okay? I tried to seduce him but he said no. Now go away so he can—“</p>

Jen's voice broke through my zen, "So you can what? And what the hell is wrong with her? Is she drunk?"

"She was saying go away so I can leave and go home, Jen. Elly has had a rough night, and I was trying to comfort her. She's had a lot to drink and doesn't feel good."

I started to laugh. "He roofied me. Kent paid eighty bucks for a roofie."

I heard my mom grumble, "Oh lord, Kent. Wait ’til I tell your mother."

Kent sighed in frustration. "Her Christmas present was a tattoo, and she said she couldn't go through with it. Jesus Christ." I felt him moving the bed behind me. "We got matching tattoos."

"Whatever. Can we go now? She's in her bed and delusional anyway she won't remember a thing.”

“Yeah, yeah." I felt the bed move again and then go still, as he stood up. "Goodnight, Elly. Merry Christmas."

I scoffed, "Would've been merrier without Jen in my dream."

I heard my mom yelling, "Kent, a roofie??" And then everything went black again.

Chapter Twenty-Three

My wrist was on fire, my head was pounding. What the hell was going on? I groaned as I rolled over, trying to get comfortable in my bed. I hoped it was my bed. I couldn’t remember anything after sitting down in the tattoo chair.

I groaned again. I got a tattoo. Kent made me get a tattoo. And whether I liked it or not, I’d always have to think about him whenever I looked the underside of my wrist. He was good. Either I would think fondly of him for the rest of my life or I’d be seventy-five and cussing his name as I stared at an old, wrinkly tattoo.

I wondered what we’d be like at seventy-five. Would we even still know each other? Would we live close? Would we talk on the phone or do puzzles together in the same nursing home?

Home… oh god, I hope he got home alright. I picked up my phone and texted him.

Me: It hurts!

Kent: Ugh. Mine too.