Cashmere & Cunningham – Best Worst Day Ever

I woke up to the feeling of someone breathing against my collarbone.

For a second I didn’t know where I was — the room was dim, the TV was still playing some late‑night survival show, and my neck hurt in a way that suggested I’d slept in a position no chiropractor would approve of. My mouth tasted like sugar and regret. My head felt like someone had replaced my brain with a balloon full of carbonated water.

Then I realized Evie was half on top of me.

Her hair was a mess — the kind of mess that looked like she’d fought a bear in her sleep and won. Her cheek was pressed against my shoulder. Her hand was resting on my arm like she’d claimed it in her sleep and would fight anyone who tried to take it.

I didn’t move. I didn’t want to.

She groaned softly, stretching like a cat, then blinked awake. I saw the exact moment her brain rebooted and registered the situation — her whole body jerked like she’d been tasered.

“Why am I on top of you?”

“Good question.”

She squinted at me. “Have we…?”

“Doubt that,” I said. “We’re both fully dressed. I can’t see us crossing that line and then getting dressed again without a shower. Not to mention there would be … remnants. I do not feel any … remnants.”

She turned her head more, giving me a look that was way too awake for this hour. “Well, there are ways to do that without taking off all clothes. I wouldn’t know what ‘remants’ would feel like, Professor Doctor Doctor Cunningham.”

I stared at her. “Evie.”

“What?”

“Please stop talking.”

She smirked, and I started sliding out from underneath her.

“I promise you, Evie, we might have passed out over a sugar coma, but we didn’t do that. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do, okay? I need to pee.”

I was about to get up when she pushed me back down and climbed over me like I was a piece of furniture.

“Me too.”

“I said it first!” I protested, pulling her back onto the couch and scrambling upright.

She jumped up, shoved me aside and sprinted toward the bathroom. I caught up, and we both got stuck in the doorway like two idiots in some old-fashioned slapstick comedy trying to escape a burning building.

We glared at each other.

I finally raised my hands. “Fine. Ladies first. But please make it quick.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She slammed the door in my face, then opened it again. “Uh… don’t pee in the sink.”

“I won’t.”

“Or my plants.”

“Aren’t those fake?”

“Exactly! Just keep it in your pants until I’m done.”

Door slammed again.

I stood there, hungover, confused, amused, and in physical distress. Then I started laughing — the kind of laugh that hurt my ribs — while I made coffee and tried not to think about how natural it felt waking up with her on top of me only to then discuss the most unsavory and unhinged topics like they were weather reports.

When I had my turn to relieve myself I came back to breakfast being almost ready. We both devoured something hearty with gusto and downed three cups of coffee each.

“Spend the day with me?” she said, leaning back in her chair.

My voice came out rough. “I need to pack.”

She shrugged. “You can pack later.”

“I really should pack now. Later might come fast and I have to fly out tomorrow.”

She sighed dramatically, “Really? Is it really over? Summer just flew by.”

“I know. When do your classes start?”

“Monday.”

“That is the day after tomorrow.”

She cursed colorfully, and somehow it was adorable, not off-putting, so I helped her out until we ran out of actual cursewords and started making our own till we snorted laughing.

We cleaned up together, I got first dibs on the shower since it took her longer, and it … it felt… domestic. Dangerously domestic.

Like we’d been doing this for years.

Evie insisted on coming home with me.

“You don’t have to,” I said, grabbing my keys. “I am coming back. Promise.”

“I want to,” she replied, already putting on her shoes.

We drove to Brindleton Bay, both of us still half-awake, windows down, music low. When we pulled into the driveway it felt … strange.

Dad gave me a once‑over when we entered. “Wow, son. Did you encounter a flock of zombies on your way back?”

Mom hugged Evie first. Of course.

I told them the new plan and they traded the usual Mom/Dad glance.

“All right, I’ll call the driver to take you to her place.”

We went upstairs together.

Then Evie saw my room for the first time, and I realized this was literally the very first time ever any girl that I wasn’t related to or that was one of my sister’s friends had set foot in it. Wow. And that at twenty-two. Was that normal? I honestly didn’t know.

She froze in the doorway. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Your room is so tidy and soooo coordinated. I always thought boys just all have messy rooms.”

“Nope, I have always been a tidy person, I guess.”

She pointed at the drawer. “Is that it?”

I swallowed. “What?”

“The drawer. Is that it? Or this one?”

She opened one. Underwear. Then another. Socks. The next one. Shirts. Then she grinned at me.

“This is it, right?”

She sat down and pulled on it, I crouched next to her trying to stop it. She shoved me and I landed on my rear. She had it open before I could sit back up.

The Drawer of Shame unleashed itself like a demon.

She pulled out:

• a hideous shirt I bought at fourteen
• a broken trophy from a spelling bee I didn’t win
• a stack of terrible middle‑school drawings
• a crumpled love letter I never sent
• a random object I couldn’t explain even under oath
• my SpongeBob PJs. All 6 sets of them. Gulp
• various embarrassing ‘treasures’ I should have thrown out years ago.

She laughed so hard she had to sit down. I tried to defend myself. I failed.

She looked around my room like she was seeing a part of me no one else ever had.

When I was finally packed up we schlepped everything down to the waiting car, our driver definitely thinking things but his face unmoved.

On the way back to her place, she said, “We need essentials.”

“What essentials? We have essentials.”

“No. We don’t. Special essentials!”

We stopped at a 7/11.

I grabbed two things — chips and a soda.

Evie grabbed a dozen or so.

She piled candy, chips, snacks, and nonsense into my arms until I could barely hold it. Then she ran off and came back with three bottles of booze — the kind of stuff college kids drink when they want to forget their GPA.

Fireball. Malibu. Tequila Rose.

“What are you trying to do, woman?” I asked.

“Little bit of every emotion known to mankind, celebrate, mourn, bond, party,” she said, adding a fourth bottle. I put two of them back while the cashier was ringing up the mess.

The driver dropped us off, I just grabbed a backpack with a change of clothes and left the other with him as he would come pick me up and take me to the airport tomorrow. At this point it was clear that I would be spending the night here, after all the booze and snacks Evie wanted, and helped her carry the three plastic bags it took to haul it all.

We got upstairs, we snacked. We watched terrible TV — Naked & Afraid, Forged in Fire, 90 Day Fiancé. And we drank. At some point I noticed I was in my boxers and it didn’t feel weird or naughty. Just … comfy.

We laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

Then I made her show me her Drawer of Shame.

She pulled out:

• a glittery headband with stars on springs
• handdrawn pictures (they were …. Bad)
• a shirt she bought in 2016 and regrets
• stuffed animals that each were missing different body parts
• a notebook full of teenage poetry

She put the headband on me. We lauged when I attempted to headbang with it. I put the stuffed animal missing an eye on her shoulder. She put a one eared bunny on mine. Then we remembered the very failed attempt at camping – and the bunny moment and we were done.
We collapsed on the couch again, drunk already and drinking more, happy, warm, feeding each other the craziest combos of snacks until we almost had to throw up.

“Hey Nate?”

“Hey what?”

“You know, I was right. Every day with you is better than the last time. Thank you for another best day.”

“Back at you. Best day ever.”

Eventually we passed out.

Good morning Vietnam San Myshuno

Phones buzzing.

Evie answered hers without opening her eyes. I had ignored the sound, thinking it was part of my dream or something.

“Nate… it’s your dad.”

She slapped the phone onto my ear.

“Hello?” I croaked on auto‑pilot, her still holding the phone to my ear.

Dad’s voice was sharp. “You’re about to miss your flight. The driver has been downstairs for over an hour. Why are you not answering your phone?!”

My brain stalled.

Miss my flight?

Downstairs for over an hour?

I blinked hard, trying to force my eyes to focus on anything that made sense.

And then it hit me — fast, brutal, like a punch straight to the chest.

“Oh shit.”

Evie’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

“It’s— it’s not nighttime. It’s tomorrow. We slept through the whole night.”

Her face went from sleepy confusion to full horror in half a second.

“Oh my God.”

Chaos. Rushing. Throwing clothes on. Evie insisting she was coming with me.

Both hungover. Both sad. Both panicking.

We ran downstairs like two people fleeing a crime scene.

We ran through the airport, both of us sweating tequila and regret.

Just before the glass doors where she couldn’t follow, we stopped.

We were breathless. Hungover. Sad. Heavy.

“Thank you for the best summer of my life,” I said.

She swallowed hard. “You made it the best summer of mine. Thank you so much for everything.”

I knew I had to go or I never would.

I swallowed hard and turned, stepping as fast as I could before I lost the ability to leave. I was close.

She called my name.

I turned again.

She ran to me.

She hugged me so tight I felt something in my chest crack open.

She looked up at me, eyes tired from the hangover, red from lack of sleep, soft in that way she got when she was trying not to show she was sad.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For the best summer of my life. It still all feels so surreal. I can’t believe that all happened. Still feels like a dream.”

I swallowed. “Yeah, it does. Thank you for the best summer of my life too. And the best birthday ever.”

“Same. And for the most beautiful gift.” She touched the necklace I’d given her.

We stood there, suspended in a moment that felt too heavy for two people who were supposedly ‘just friends.’ And both of us absolutely stalling when we knew we really shouldn’t.

I shifted my bag on my shoulder. “I should—” I nodded toward the glass doors.

She stepped forward. Fast. Like she didn’t trust herself to think about it.

And then she kissed me.

A tiny kiss. Barely a kiss. Just her lips brushing mine — soft, nervous, impulsive — like she wasn’t sure she was allowed, like she wasn’t sure she should, like she wasn’t sure she’d survive not doing it.

My breath caught.

She gasped — actually gasped — and stepped back like she’d touched a live wire.

Her eyes went huge. Her hand flew to her mouth. She looked at me like What did I just do? Oh God. Oh no. Abort mission. Erase, rewind.

“I— I didn’t— I don’t know why I—” she stammered, cheeks flushing, panic rising.

I dropped my bags.

They hit the floor with a thud that echoed through the terminal.

I stepped forward, grabbed her gently but firmly, pulled her close — not in a dramatic movie way, but in a way that felt like gravity had finally stopped messing around and decided to do its job.

Her breath hitched.

I kissed her.

A real kiss. A grounded kiss. A mature kiss. A “this is happening and I’m not running from it” kiss.

Not rushed. Not messy. Not desperate.

Just… right.

Her hands wrapped around my neck. Mine settled at her waist, pulling her closer. The world blurred. The airport noise faded. Everything narrowed to the warmth of her lips and the shock of how natural it felt.

When I finally pulled back, she looked stunned — not scared, not panicked, just stunned in the way someone looks when the thing they didn’t let themselves hope for actually happens.

“Nate…” she whispered.

I touched her cheek. “I had to.”

She nodded, eyes shining. “I know. I’m glad you did.”

Yeah, I know — we’re really nailing the whole ‘romance novel’ thing here. Future generations will swoon over our poetic masterpieces. If my mom and Grandpa heard this they’d be crying in million‑record‑selling song lyric, while muttering ‘We gave you better genes than that.’ Grandpa is probably rotating in his grave right now.

I picked up my bags. She stepped back, arms wrapped around herself like she was holding the moment in place.

I walked toward the automatic doors. They opened, making a sound like they were tapping their imaginary feet, waiting for me to finally step through.

I looked back once.

She was still there.

Wiping her eyes.

My heart melted. Something in my chest twisted so sharply I had to look away before I did something stupid like run back to her and refuse to go back to campus like the eternal student. With a small wave I disappeared through the doors — because if I didn’t leave now, I never would.

And I knew — absolutely knew — that nothing about my life was going to be the same after this.

We were on a video call until I had to turn off my phone for takeoff, both of us swearing we were not crying but absolutely crying. She kept insisting it was “just dehydration.” I blamed “airport air.” Neither of us believed the other.

I video‑called her again the moment we landed. I was still on with her when I walked into my dorm room, fueling endless jokes from my roomie Tate — whom she got to meet when I tried to show her the dorm room and the views while he made sure he was in the picture again and again.

I ran my phone out of battery that night and had to use Tate’s to text my parents that I’d made it safely because I completely forgot to let them know.

And now… well. We’re going to have to survive this last semester. At first, I wished it would last forever — I wasn’t ready to join Dad at work yet, even though I technically could’ve graduated already. Now I wished I had graduated and couldn’t wait for it to be over.

At least Labor Day weekend wasn’t far. I’d be home again before either of us had time to miss each other properly. And after that? Thanksgiving. And I was scheduled to graduate just before Christmas. We’d make it.

Somehow.