Only of You

Peyton.

The next morning was rough. I woke up feeling like my insides were bruised, which if I was being honest, wasn't far from the truth. I'd drank too much, ate shit stumbling into Jesse and Lint's place, and skinned both my knees. Yes, maybe I was a complete and utter moron to spend the night with two people I'd just met, but I wasn't exactly spoiled with options. Not that I remembered what happened in its entirety, but I did remember Billie Joe practically branding me with a scarlet letter.

Samantha, he'd said, had told him that I threw myself at guys, or something of the sort. Which was ridiculous. Because clearly I didn't, clearly I had boundaries. Clearly I didn't have anything to do with Samantha's boyfriend or any other moron at school, for that matter. Well, besides Billie Joe, but that was beside the point. Because whatever that was, it was over.

Anyway, I was lying in Jesse's bed staring at the ceiling when I got the idea to wage war with Billie Joe. Not that I was in Jesse's bed with any perverse motive or anything. No. As a matter of fact, I'd told him I liked Billie Joe. The fact that I'd told him after we'd made out was also entirely beside the point. Because still, I'd told him. And still, he'd let me stay. Because Jesse Michaels, apparently, was a good guy. Not that I had any sort of metric to measure him against, but in my book? The man was practically Captain America, only without the shield or biceps. Or, you know, the heroics.

It was probably all Billie Joe's fault anyway. If he hadn't acted like such a dick I never would have gone home with Jesse. I would have crashed on his couch, if he'd let me. But no, he had to go and prove me right. He was an asshole through and through, I didn't have any doubt.

Jesse was still asleep beside me, snoring like he didn't have a total stranger in his bed. He was sort of cute when he was sleeping. Not that grown men are particularly cute, but there was a certain softness about it. About him. For all the cool, punk-boy bravado, beneath that there was someone who was kind. Well, he'd been kind when he was drunk on SoCo and that was good enough for me. I sincerely doubted he'd wake up and turn into Charles Manson or anything. Jesse wore deodorant. That didn't exactly scream cult leader.

I thought back to the night before. The way things had escalated. Maybe it had been me, but could anyone blame me? Probably. But Jesse Michaels was objectively hot. Objectively. You couldn't even argue it. He had that stupid smug smile, that little crease between his eyebrows. And sure, maybe I leaned in first, but let's not weigh this down with semantics. Because the point was I was lying in his bed now, wasn't I? And that had started with him leading me to his bedroom.

He'd slumped down on his bed, shoes still on. He didn't say anything, he didn't have to. It was just the way he'd looked at me. His eyes sparking something altogether unhinged inside my skull. I climbed on top of him.

"What're you doing?" He asked, smirk still on his mouth.

Then I kissed him. Not just any kiss, I'd practically forced my tongue down his throat. And he'd let me. In fact, he deepened it. Until my stupid brain let slip the one thing I'd been trying to hide all night.

"I need to tell you something," I said, pulling away from him.

He didn't say anything, only stared at me like he wanted me to get to the point. Which, fair. Because who drops a line like that at a time like that? Me, apparently.

"I'm kind of in love with someone," the words spilled out before I had time to consider what I was saying.

He laughed, out loud, like the whole situation was absurd. Because it was. Then asked, "Billie Joe Armstrong?"

And he knew. I didn't even have to say yes, didn't have to tell him he was right. Because he knew. And now it was the next morning and I hated myself because I'd told someone the one thing that could absolutely destroy me. Smart move, Peyton. You fucking dumbass.