Woke Up Like This(62)

He holds me for a moment before his arms start to shake. “Um, Char?”

“Yeah?”

“I—I think my pants just split down the front.”

I laugh and crane my neck to see for myself, and my body shifts more dramatically than I meant it to, straight out of Renner’s arms.

Within a blink, I’m hurtling face forward into the concrete.





TWENTY-SEVEN



There’s a familiar dull ache behind my eyes. Something hard jams into my forehead, and my breath hitches, as if a boa constrictor has coiled itself around my chest.

My eyes snap open, body rigid and on high alert. I’m disoriented, like when you’re blindfolded in those pin-the-tail games and someone spins you around and around.

That’s how I feel as I take in a few facts:

1) I’m lying facedown.

2) My nose is squashed into a dusty wood plank floor. The gymnasium floor.

3) We’re no longer in a random alley in Fairfax. I am no longer in Renner’s arms.

How did we end up here? Did I have a concussion after Renner dropped me?

I rake my hand through my hair, expecting my fingers to snag on knotted, rain-drenched strands. But it’s dry and otherwise smooth.

Speaking of Renner . . . I can smell his clean, lemony scent all around me, as though I’ve bathed in it. And that’s when a low groan vibrates against my chest.

Renner’s chin pokes my chest wall, right between my boobs.

“Yup. That’s gonna hurt tomorrow,” he croaks.



I’m unable to respond, mostly because I’m disoriented. Every muscle and joint in my body aches. I make a mental note to schedule a chiropractor appointment. That seems like an adult thing to do.

Renner gently sets his hands on either side of my waist and rolls me off him. And that’s when I get a good look at his face.

He’s clean shaven.

Boyishly familiar.

Gone are that broad jawline, the facial hair, the added crinkle lines around his eyes.

I scan the gym, my eye catching a glimpse of the tacky cardboard seaweed affixed to the wall.

We’re seventeen again.

We’re back.

And so are the blisters on my feet.



I feel like I’ve fallen from a balcony twenty stories up. Everything hurts.

I gather the strength to pull myself into a seated position, and Renner snaps his fingers in my face abruptly. “Char? Are you hurt? You look like total shit.”

His words are like an ice bath. It’s like being cast into darkness after relishing in the sunlight. Gone are the softness and affection in his eyes.

I shake my head. Before what? The future? The Renner staring at me like I’m a freak of nature is not the Renner who confessed his feelings for me. He’s not the Renner I made out with in the rain. Which means . . . it wasn’t based in any sort of reality, alternate or otherwise. Because if it were an alternate reality, surely he experienced it too?

Could it have been a dream? Perhaps.

But that doesn’t compute. Usually, after a vivid dream, the thrashing heartbeat fades once you regain consciousness. But my heartbeat shows no signs of slowing.

“Hello?” Renner waves his hand annoyingly close to my face.



I recoil before he pokes my eye out. “Yeah. I’m great. Never better,” I say sarcastically, batting his limp, outstretched hand away to pull myself up.

Renner remains kneeled over me, stupid seventeen-year-old face backlit by the fluorescent gym light like a tacky, yet annoyingly handsome, angel. A supercut of memories floats through my mind. Walking into the school with him. Being surrounded by friends and family at our bachelor/bachelorette party. Ripping through town playing car hide-and-seek. His chest against mine as we danced to “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” while chaperoning prom. Clutching my stomach with laughter in the thrift store dressing room. The sweet taste of candy on his lips. The feeling of his chin on my head as we hid from the rain.

I’m half tempted to pull his face to mine and see if Real Teen Renner kisses like Adult Renner before logic takes over again. This is the real Renner, after all. The one who insults me whenever possible. The one who delights in all my failings. And the one who lives to make my life a living hell. How could I possibly conjure up anything different?

“I’m . . . I’m gonna go get the nurse,” he says, standing.

“N-No,” I stammer. “I said I’m fine.”

He gives me an as if look. “You’re not. You can barely get up.”

It’s natural instinct to prove him wrong. And I try to, at least. I start pulling myself up, but he presses my shoulders down, anchoring me in place. “Jesus, will you just listen to me for once in your life and stay there? You could have a concussion.” His tone takes me aback. It’s strict, but has an edge of warmth. Not unlike how he addressed his students in phys ed class. When we were thirty.

“Okay. Fine.”

About ten minutes later, he returns with Nurse Ryerson. It’s a running joke that anyone attracted to women will make an excuse to see Nurse Ryerson. She’s admittedly hot for forty.

She performs a quick assessment and badgers us about safety.

“How in the world did you manage to fall off the ladder?” she asks, almost as if it’s my fault.