But this was how I imagined it’d make me feel—cotton-headed, sluggish, and slow to rise. Micah’s fault, I thought as I tumbled out of bed. It was like I’d taken in too much of him yesterday and he’d made my system crash. God, I couldn’t wait until I got over this first-blush addiction to what he did to me and got back to being my old boring self—normal, logical, future-minded. There was no future with a guy like him, and that was a fact. I threw a long T-shirt over my camisole and shorts, grabbing my phone out of habit, then padded out of the pool house and entered the main one through the back. I headed to the kitchen, where women’s voices wove in and out of one another like the buzz of bees in a garden. I’d overslept long enough for even the winos to wake up before I did. I was fixing my ponytail out of its bedhead slump when I trudged in, raising my hand in a yawning hello and going straight to the fridge for orange juice and milk.
