Eleven Weeks by Lauren K. McKellar

damn ugly?
    “Do you know how I knew you liked me?” Michael whispers. I shake my head, refusing to make eye contact. “It was one of the things you told me that night at the party.”
    I swallow. I’d told him I liked him?
    “And you told me you thought I wasn’t serious about you, because I was about to go away, and because I’d recently come out of a two-year relationship, and because I’d never made a move”— Fact, I mentally tick the boxes off in my head—“and I told you why I hadn’t.”
    I freeze. “And … why was that?” I chance a tentative glance at him, hopeful.
    He shakes his head and gives a soft laugh. “It’s … what matters is that we could make this thing work, Stacey. You just need to give it a chance.”
    He leans back against the bedhead with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. I sigh and join him there. He thinks I’m embarrassed of him, when it couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s him who should be embarrassed of me.
    What was …?
    “Why is the bed moving?” I hiss at Michael. He’s rocking back and forth with his legs, pushing against the headboard so the mattress moves back and forth ever so slightly.
    “Ugh,” he offers up what can only be described as the sort of grunt a cow might make while having sex. The mattress squeaks. He slams the palm of his hand against the headboard and looks at me, nodding, letting me know it’s my turn.
    I smile. “Harder!”
    He gives me back a grin in return. A part of me melts. How can a guy have dimples that freaking sexy?
    The bed squeaks as Michael rocks and hits the head of the bed, over and over.
    “Try it,” he whispers, jerking his head toward his hand. I scrunch up my nose.
    I slap the headboard myself. That feels good. Really good.
    “Do it again,” he whispers. “Think about your family, being all crap and overachieving and stuff.”
    “Yes!” I scream.
    Shae’s moving out of home.
    Slap.
    It feels amazing.
    “Now how ’bout how Dave is a dick for hurting your friend?” Michael grins.
    “Yes!”
    Slap.
    “Yes!”
    Life is unfair for making Kate so miserable.
    Slap.
    That stupid guy who put this baby inside me.
    Slap .
    Me.
    Slap, slap, slap.
    “Ugh!” Michael grunts again just as I give an almighty “yes” that I am sure will either have Kate putting on headphones or sending me a text telling me to can it.
    There’s something cathartic about slapping things. For the first time in one and a bit weeks, I feel a sense of peace wash over me.
    I let out a contented sigh and lift the edge of the blankets, snuggling down underneath the quilt. Michael rests his head on the pillow, his body stretched next to mine. After a few moments, my breathing slows, returning to a normal rate. I turn to my side, facing away from Michael. He moves one tentative hand to rest on my waist.
    I like the way it feels.
    A lot.
    “So that’s what you sound like?” I look over my shoulder. One corner of his mouth rises in a smile.
    “I sound better.” I shuffle back so my body is pressed against his. He is warm.
    Firm.
    Nice .
    “You know, you could always show me—”
    “Hey! Don’t ruin post-sex cuddles.” I frown and wrap his arm around me tighter.
    We lie there in silence for a few moments, me watching the bright lights still dancing around out the window, concentrating on his hot breath in my hair, behind my ear. He gives me goose bumps.
    “You are the most confusing person I know,” Michael whispers.
    Ain’t that the truth.
     

     
    December 10
     
    T HE WARM sun beats down on my face. I open my eyes, fighting the stickiness that falling asleep while wearing mascara brings. I run my tongue along my teeth, the gross feeling of furry and—
    Oh God.
    Last night.
    Michael .
    I inch my leg behind me, hoping to feel his warmth. Maybe we can make this work, somehow. Michael seems to think we can.
    One inch: warm bed sheets.
    Two inches: the bed cools.
    Three inches: nothing.
    I flip over. His side of the