“I’m so sick of being asked that,” I mumble.

“Okay, forget that I said anything. You’re right. Josh totally ruined your day.”

I should probably find it patronizing, but right now I don’t think I could even pretend to care. “Thanks.”

I hear Wyatt snicker, and the thud of him putting something on his desk. “For what?”

He wants me to thank him for taking me to the shower, for making sure I brushed my teeth three or four times, for cleaning up the mess I made.

He wants the moral high ground.

People like him like it there.

“For agreeing with me,” I say.

He laughs again. “Good night, Kearney.”

“Night, Fowler.”

I lie there for just a little bit longer, my breath slowing, the alcohol finally wearing off a degree, the rancid taste in my mouth barely detectable thanks to the mint flavor of the toothpaste and mouthwash I used.

“I want a do-over,” I grumble. Like one of those movies where the main character gets to live the same day over and over again. Josh made me watch one of those. Happy Death Day, that’s what I want. Just without all the killing.

Well …

Maybe a little killing.

I want a do-over …

But no one will give me one.

Friday: April 15

Everything hurts when I wake up.

My head, my jaw, my eyes, my hands for some reason.

“God, fuck me.” I try to sit up slowly, but the moment I do, I regret it. The room starts to spin again, and there’s something so bright that it’s blinding me and making me see spots, the sound of a guitar from somewhere. “What the fuck?”

“Good morning to you too!” I hear Wyatt say from somewhere; I haven’t dared opened my eyes again. All I know is that he’s being far too loud for so early in the morning.

“What the hell?” I bury my head under the pillow. “Why are you up so early?”

“It is one in the afternoon.”

“Fuck.”

“Language.”

“Shut up.” I roll over, covering my eyes with my hands. “It’s break, right? Classes are still off?”

“Yes.”

I peek down at the floor, spotting a pile of clothes that are covered in dirt and grass stains. Wyatt’s just sitting on his bed, guitar in his lap as he strums away, his fingers plucking the strings so effortlessly. I don’t recognize the song.

“Hey, if you’re going to go milk the cows or whatever, the least you could do is pick up your dirty clothes.”

Wyatt looks at me, a slow grin spreading on his lips. “Those are yours.”

“No, they aren’t.” Because if those are mine, that means that last night wasn’t a dream. I stretch my arm, barely snagging the shirt by the collar and yanking it toward me.