I may have adopted his penny-pinching habit, but it hasn’t really been an issue since moving in with Emory. She was on the verge of being evicted after her old roommate stuck her with half of the lease, so things like air-conditioning aren’t considered necessities. They’re considered luxuries.

This was fine when I lived back in Portland, but having lived in the bipolar weather of Texas for an entire month, I’ve had to adjust my sleeping habits. Instead of using a comforter, I sleep with layers of sheets. That way, if it gets too hot in the middle of the night, I can just push one or two of the sheets off the bed.

With all that considered, why am I so cold right now? And why am I wrapped up in what feels like a down comforter? Every time I try to open my eyes and wake up to find answers to my own questions, I go right back to sleep, because I’ve never been this comfortable. I feel like I’m a little cherub angel sleeping peacefully on a cloud.

Wait. I shouldn’t feel like an angel. Am I dead?

I sit straight up in the bed and open my eyes, I’m too confused and scared to move, so I keep my head completely still and slowly move my eyes around the room. I see the kitchen, the bathroom door, the stairwell leading down to the studio.

I’m in Owen’s apartment.

Why?

I’m in Owen’s big, comfortable bed.

Why?

I immediately turn and look down at the bed, but Owen isn’t in it, thank God. The next thing I do is check my clothes. I’m still fully dressed, thank God.

Think, think, think.

Why are you here, Auburn? Why does your head feel like someone used it as a trampoline all night?

It comes back to me, slowly. First, I remember being stood up. Bitch. I remember Harrison. I remember running to the bathroom after he betrayed me by calling Owen. I hate Harrison. I also remember being at the salon and . . . Oh, God. Really, Auburn?

I was in his lap. In his lap, cutting his damn hair.

I bring my hand to my forehead. That’s it. I’m never drinking again. Alcohol makes people do stupid things, and I can’t afford to be caught doing stupid things. The smart thing to do right now would be to get the hell out of here, which sucks because I really wish I could take this bed with me.

I quietly slip out of it and head toward the restroom. I close the door behind me and immediately begin looking through drawers in order to hopefully find an unused toothbrush, but I come up empty-handed. Instead, I use my finger, some toothpaste, and an ungodly amount of amazing wintergreen mouthwash. Owen has great taste in bathroom products, that’s for sure.

Where is he, anyway?

Once I’m finished in the restroom, I search for my shoes and find my Toms at the foot of his bed. I could have sworn I was in heels at some point last night. Yep, definitely never drinking again.

I make my way to the stairs, hoping Owen isn’t in the studio. He doesn’t appear to be here, so maybe he left to avoid having to face me once I woke up. He obviously has his reasons for not showing up, so I doubt he’s changed his mind about how he feels. Which means this is probably the perfect opportunity to get the hell out of here and never come back.

“You can’t keep avoiding me, Owen. We need to talk about this before Monday.”

I pause at the foot of the stairs and press my back against the wall. Shit. Owen is still here, and he’s got company. Why, why, why? I just want to leave.

“I know what my options are, Dad.”

Dad? Great. The last thing I want right now is to do the walk of shame in front of his freaking father. This isn’t good. I hear footsteps approaching, so I immediately begin to scale the stairs again, but the footsteps fade just as fast.

I pause, but then the footsteps grow louder. I take two more steps, but the footsteps fade again.

Whoever is walking, they’re just pacing back and forth. After several back-and-forths, they come to a stop.

“I need to prepare to shut down the studio,” Owen says. “It might be a few months before I can open it again, so I really just want to focus on that today.”

Shut down the studio? I catch myself creeping back to the bottom of the stairs to hear more of the conversation. I’m being so uncharacteristically nosy, it makes me feel a bit like Emory right now.

“This studio is the last thing you should be worried about right now,” his father says angrily.

More pacing.

“This studio is the only thing I’m worried about right now,” Owen says loudly. He sounds even angrier than his father. The pacing stops.

His father sighs so heavily I could swear it echoes across the studio. There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “You have options, Owen. I’m only trying to help you.”

I shouldn’t be listening to this. I’m not the type of person to invade someone’s privacy and I feel guilty for doing it. But for the life of me, I can’t make myself walk back up the stairs.

“You’re trying to help me?” Owen says, laughing in disbelief. He’s obviously not pleased with what his father is saying. Or failing to say. “I want you to leave, Dad.”

My heart skips an entire beat. I can feel it in my throat. My stomach is telling me to find an alternate escape route.

“Owen—”

“Leave!”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know who to feel sorry for right now, Owen or his father. I can’t tell what they’re arguing about and of course it’s none of my business, but if I’m about to have to face Owen, I want to be prepared for whatever mood he’s going to be in.