Extrait

My eyes suddenly jerk open when I feel the subtle shaking of my bed. For a minute, my sleep-addled brain wonders if we’re having an earthquake and panic sets in. Then I remember I live in Ohio and the house is probably not preparing to crumble down around me. As my eyes adjust to the darkness in my childhood bedroom, I listen intently for sounds of heavy breathing or the distinct metallic clang of a knife sharpening, certain the shaking of my bed is a not-so-stealthy axe murderer preparing to slit my throat.

What? That could totally happen. Some dude could have broken into my parent’s home and now he’s sitting on the edge of my bed, sharpening his giant knife.

I hold my breath in fear. I begin to slowly turn my head and prepare to come face-to-face with a homicidal maniac when something kicks the back of my leg with the force of a two-by-four.

“Ouch! Son of a bitch!” I shout as I quickly flop over in bed. Unfortunately, I don’t come face-to-face with a killer. What I do find in my bed next to me is much worse.

“Tyler! What the f**k are you still doing in my bed?” I whisper-yell, hoping my initial outburst didn’t wake my parents, who are sleeping down the hall.

Tyler Branson, man-child extraordinaire and the guy I’ve been shame f**king for the past few months, doesn’t even bat an eye at me. I listen in irritation as he lightly snores and watch as his legs jerk forward every couple of seconds. Pretty soon, his arms join in, reminding me of those stupid YouTube videos of dogs dreaming that they’re running.