Welcome to Viv's lost memories. (Here is your complementary glass of wine.)

Reminder: it's late April in the story, and this scene happens last September. Viv learns about her three blackouts from Jamie. This flashback corresponds to the last half of Chapter 6 and the first half of Chapter 7 if you wanted to read it from a chronological perspective.

Enjoy!

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The First Game Day

pillow stirred.

I protested the movement—physically, verbally—I wrapped my arms around the rebellious body pillow and groaned loudly, urging it to be still and docile like all inanimate objects should be. In the back of my mind, I felt the vehicle carrying us roll to a stop. The seatbelt traversing my torso prevented me from cuddling into the pillow, though I couldn't remember willingly strapping myself into such an irritating contraption.

"Viv, you need to get out of the Uber. We're home."

I dug my nose deeper into the pillow and squeezed my eyelids tighter. "You're not supposed to talk." Pillows were inanimate.

"Fuck, what do you want me to do then?"

"Just let me sleep. You smell good." Like some fresh citrus fruit—like summertime.

For a few moments of silence, I hoped I could finally doze off.

Then, in a strangely soft manner, "You can sleep inside," and, aside in a sotto voice, "I'm really sorry about her. She's drunk."

"We've all been there, man," someone chuckled.

I was not drunk.

My liver was just taking a temporary break before I could get back to partying with Riley. Krista and I had dragged the girl from her bedroom this morning to distract her from her recent break-up. We hit up the tailgate outside Halston Stadium in the afternoon, then fled back to the dorms for pre-gaming, then stumbled to town for dancing.

The sound of a car door opening at my side dragged me out of my stupor. "Come on, Viv. Just stand on the ground. I'll carry you up and you can get your pillow, okay?"

"No. Pillow," I complained. "I can fall asleep right here. You know, I could fall asleep standing up?"

Suddenly, coarse hands cradled my face and lifted my head in the air. After considerable thought and effort, I forced my eyelids to flutter open. There was a handsome, familiar, infuriating face above mine.

"Jamie?"

He smiled, "Hello."

Upon catching the way he had looped his arms under my knees and around my back, I jolted upright and out of the car, swatting his hands away. "Do not carry me."

I didn't need this man-child to walk me into the dorm like a knight carrying his princess. I had no manners, no decorum, and more times than not, it was fire that left my mouth—I was more the dragon than the princess.

Jamie shook his head, sighing exasperatedly. "Alright, walk then."

We walked. Up the cobbled pathway to the gleaming dormitory I called home, through the doors into the reception and further to the elevator lobby. I wrapped both arms around myself as I rested my weight back against the polished wall.

"My feet are sore." And my skin was tingling yet numb, hot yet breaking into a cold sweat, my stomach throwing a tantrum.

Jamie raked his palm through his hair, dragging his wavy locks back from his forehead. It glistened with sweat, much like everyone else clubbing in Halston on Game Day. "Fucking same."

In the elevator, a tightening sensation besieged my gut, like something gripped it and wrung all the space out of it. I rush to the corner and empty its contents, vomit dropping straight down onto a point mere inches from my shoes.

"Argh, Viv! What the—" Jamie panicked, as if I just shot his grandmother.

I tried to tell him that vomiting was not as bad as murdering, and I'd clean it up, but my lips were numb. Sliding down onto the elevator floor, I flopped with my legs splaying akimbo in front of me. What great luck nothing got on my shoes.

He waved his hands in front of my eyes, sighing in relief when I smiled weakly at him. "Okay, um... just, keep sitting there. You're good."

The elevator doors slid open on the eighth floor. Jamie disappeared into the common room and returned ten seconds later, holding a fresh black trash bag in front of my face.

"Here's a bag." He pressed it into my lap. "Keep this in front of you at all times, you hear me?"

My mouth burned, tasting acrid. "Mm-hmm." I nodded and grasped the bag carefully, shoving an arm deep inside for easy access—just in case.

Jamie wrapped his arms around the backs of my knees and my ribcage; this time I didn't protest being lifted by him. He exhaled. "Okay, you're going up. Three, two, one—"

Then I was high in the air. I kept clutching the trash bag. I bet I looked horrible. Smelled horrible, too.

I giggled sardonically. "Ugh... This is so becoming, isn't it?"

Jamie shot me a withering smile. "Totally."

I turned my head up to look at him. His stupid, perfect face looked even stupider from this close, with full lips and smouldering eyes. I was near enough to notice the tan on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, from long days practicing football under the sun.

"What's your type of girl, Jamie?" I wondered. "You don't seem to have a pattern to your hookups."

Redheads, brunettes, blondes, athletes, STEM majors—since meeting Jamie a year ago, I'd seen all of them on his arm, walking with him around campus, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, or on occasion exiting the Jays' room. They were certainly not there for Jake.

Jamie nudged open the door to the communal bathroom on my side of the corridor. "I like nice, sweet girls."

Maybe it was how cliche that sounded, or maybe it was the lingering alcohol in my system. But Jamie's answer triggered a fresh wave of nausea. He set me down in a stall and stepped away, sighing when I bent over and threw up again.

"Blergh," I said, at length, spitting a clear glob of saliva into the toilet bowl. "That's rather boring."

Then I retched again. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I sensed Jamie stepping into the stall. His warm hands brushed against my temples. They swept back and down my scalp, gathering loose strands of my hair into a secure bundle at the nape of my neck.

I groaned, cringing at the rancid stinging that had spread to my nostrils. "So I'm not your type?"

Jamie snorted, his fingers readjusting their grip on my hair. "No, definitely not—have you ever thought about growing your hair long?"

"Look. I like you as a friend, and I don't care if I'm your type or not, so your preferences can go fuck themselves." The next retch was mostly liquid and clear, leaving my stomach feeling empty but light. The worst had passed.

"Touchy," Jamie drawled. "But, I meant your hair'd be easier to hold, you know, if you threw up in the toilet again. And I have the misfortune of being with you."

"Oh." It was a really considerate thing he was doing right now, staying with me. "Sorry for being an ass."

I lowered the toilet lid and flushed twice. When I turned around, Jamie was leaning against the sink. His crossed arms strategically showed off the impressive curve of his biceps, but I doubted it was strategic. He was the type of hot that didn't need to prove it.

I crossed my own arms in response, raising a combative eyebrow.

Jamie shook his head mirthfully. He jerked his head to the shower stall. "Get into the shower."

"Damn, Jamie," I smirked. "At least buy me a drink first."

"Alone," he stressed.

Swaying like a flag in the wind, I walked four paces out of the bathroom stall, took a left turn, and stepped right into the shower stall. I whirled around to look expectantly at Jamie.

He sighed exasperatedly. "Lock the door."

I did as he instructed. I thought there was a method behind his odd requests, but my exhausted mind could not figure out what it was. "Now what?"

His voice drifted over the shower door. "Take off your clothes and pass them to me."

I removed my crop top, skirt, underwear, shoes and socks and launched them over the gap between the door and the ceiling. Jamie must have caught everything like the peak athlete he was, because I heard nothing hit the ground. Numbnuts.

"Turn the water on." I pulled out the shower lever. "Now get in." Oh! He wanted me to take a shower. Should have just said.

"Okay, I'm showering now!" I exclaimed proudly, shivering underneath the still-warming jet of water.

My shower products were right where I left them in the wall-mounted caddy—and shampoo had never smelled so luxurious. Twenty minutes later, I pulled open the shower curtain to see a pile of clothing slid underneath the stall door: two towels, a pair of sleep shorts, a baggy t-shirt, fresh underwear, my toothbrush and toothpaste.

As my designated 'walking pocket'—meaning he held my shit when I wore pocketless, skintight dresses—on town nights, Jamie had my phone and keys the entire time, so he must have retrieved these from my room.

What a good boy.

After dressing and brushing my teeth twice, I found Jamie leaning against the wall outside my room, the door ajar. It was still jarring to see half of the room empty—the mattress bare, and cupboards hollow—as per the accommodation team's instructions to keep it instantly inhabitable by any stranger.

But I supposed I wouldn't have to deal with any grouchy roommates.

"How are you feeling?"

I held my hand out, and he dropped my phone and keys into my palm. My eyes swung from my hand to Jamie's face. That was not what I was going for, so I wrapped the other arm around his waist and pulled him close. "Sleepy."

My nose pressed into his chest, finding his heartbeat steady and relaxing and warm. I could have stayed here for hours.

"Go to bed then," Jamie advised cheekily, one arm looped around my shoulders.

I shook my head, which had the dual effect of rubbing my face against his muscles. Mm... clementines. "But my hair is still wet. I can't catch pneumonia, Jamie."

"Alright," he sighed. I felt his chest fall, my head going with it. Jamie steered me into my room, shut the door and dragged my desk chair out. "Sit down."

A happy exhale escaped me. To be off my feet after a long, eventful night was such a relief.

Jamie removed the towel from my hair and started my hair dryer. My head lolled back against his torso, eyelids drifting shut. Jamie's left hand worked soothingly across my scalp, lifting my hair towards the warm jet of air. A gentle push at the nape of my neck signalled me to drop my head, and he gently swept the hairdryer across the back of my hair.

It was so soft and careful; I was halfway asleep by the time he finished. He even wheeled my chair right up to my bed so I wouldn't have to get up and walk the short distance. That was such a surprisingly gentlemanly thing to do. His future girlfriend would be very lucky.

I clambered under the covers greedily, burying my face in the pillow. It was not as comfortable or nice-smelling as Jamie. But it did the job.

"Goodnight, Viv," I heard. The room went dark behind my eyelids.

Calling out into the inky void, I apologised, "I'm sorry for throwing up."

"It was an accident."

"Thank you for looking after me," I continued, yawning loudly.

"Don't mention it," Jamie chuckled.

"Goodnight, Jamie."

"Goodnight, Viv."

His soft voice formed my name as a whisper, like the scratch of a pencil, the rustle of bedsheets, skin sliding on skin. All things powerful and inaudible.

Then my door clicked shut and sleep claimed me.

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