I pushed aside the covers, reached for a night shirt on the floor, and pulled it on. “Not class, you moron. I told you that. I told you it was important.”

He put the pillow over his head. “That thing about having to go drive to a phone to talk to your dad? I thought you were making that up.”

Panic shot through me. “I told you that?” How drunk had I been, anyway? I got out of bed. The minute I was upright, my head started pounding. Okay. That drunk.

“You talked a lot,” he said.

I ripped the pillow away from his head. “Get out.”

He rolled over. “Seriously?” He looked wounded.

“Seriously,” I said. I threw the pillow at his chest and went into the bathroom. I didn’t have time for a shower, but my hair was a complete mess. I popped a toothbrush in my mouth and surveyed my bed head. It was smashed on one side, wavy on the other.

I grimaced. Most girls on earth would be able to pull their hair into a ponytail now, but for some reason, I had the kind of hair that never pulled properly into a ponytail. I’d always have nasty bumps sticking out and my hair would refuse to lie flat. I wasn’t sure why this was, but it was annoying.

I spat out toothpaste and rinsed my mouth. Then I turned on the shower. I’d just stick my head underneath it.

It didn’t really matter how I looked. I wasn’t going to see anyone important or anything. But I couldn’t handle going out into the world looking really bad. I had a modicum of personal pride.

When I returned to my bedroom, a towel wrapped around my now-wet hair, Rough Hands was still lying in my bed.

I put my hands on my hips. “You’re still here.”

He sat up. “I can’t believe you’re kicking me out.”

“Well, believe it,” I said.

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