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I wake up by myself in bed, and smile when I'm reminded of our new sheets. Every time I think about whoever laundered last night's bedding, I blush hard. I sit up and look around in the dark, the open balcony doors letting in a little light. Still dressed in just my booty shorts and a tank top, I wrap the thin sheet around myself, and walk to the doors. Ethan's sitting in a chair outside, wearing nothing but basketball shorts, and looks up to smile at me. "Chanel," he beckons me, his hand extended. I walk to him and he guides me sideways on his lap. "How long have you been up?" I ask. "Not long," he says, and I look out to the lights between us and the ocean. It's past midnight, but we can still hear people on the streets. Sitting here with him, my thoughts start to twist together, pondering today and this entire weekend. I've had more fun in the last three days than the last three years combined probably. Being here with Ethan turned out less awkward than I initially expected. I. As she stepped more fully into the light, I could see that her hooded winter coat was old and still bore the snow which had fallen on her in what could have been no more than thirty minutes or so outside. But I was stunned that she had not worn pants — instead, she wore a dress or a skirt. Even stranger, instead of boots, even stylish boots, she wore low heels. ‘What the –‘ I stopped myself before I said something entirely inappropriate. As she stepped closer, it was clear that at some point, she had been crying profusely: Her makeup had run in horrid streaks down her face. ‘Lost or runaway?’ ‘Runaway,’ she admitted, her voice small and ready to break. ‘The car finally ran out of gas and I just started walking…’ ‘Why?’ I asked as I lit a tall jarred candle. ‘Why brave the blizzard?’ She remained silent, a noticeable shiver passing through her beneath her clothes, and that made me aware of the fact that I was not wearing as many layers as one would expect during a winter storm of.
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