I awake the next morning to the sound of someone knocking on my door.
"Who the hell drops in?" I frustratingly ask the empty room. It’s a worse offense than calling. Doesn’t anyone just text anymore?
I consider pulling the covers over my head and ignoring my visitor, but I already have a good idea who it is.
And I should see him.
No matter how nauseated I am.
"Hold on," I shout, pulling on a pair of sweats to go with my sleep tank, and then I drag myself to the front door.
I check the peephole, and my breath catches when I see him. It’s amazing how he does that to me every time I catch sight of him. He looks ragged, like he had a restless night’s sleep. Still better than I look, I’m sure. I don’t need a mirror to see that my eyes are puffy and red rimmed, and though I don’t need to throw up, I’m probably pale from the morning sickness.
Well, this is me. No use pretending it’s not.