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Thankfully, I have two couches in the living room: the large one Elliot is sprawled out on, and a much smaller sofa catty-corner to it. It’s not going to be a comfortable night, but I care more about making sure Elliot’s okay than me being comfortable.
When I was in college, one of my classmates tragically passed away after a party. I didn’t know her very well, but I still think about her from time to time. She was just so young. She was so full of life…until she wasn't. Walking into the classroom I shared with her for the rest of the semester was a reminder of how fragile life is.
She came home alone after a party, extremely drunk. Shepassed out on her back and unfortunately, died of asphyxiation. At twenty-one years old, she choked on her own vomit in her sleep. Ever since her death, I’ve been overly cautious about sleeping on my side if I have anything to drink.
So, that is why I’m being so adamant about making sure Elliot’s okay. And even if I don’t want to admit it, I may have grown a soft spot for him after last night. There’s a reason he is the way he is…I just wish I knew what it was.
I give Spooky one more pet before swiping a pillow and blanket from my bed.
I walk back into the living and sweep my eyes down Elliot’s body. Like a worried mother, I make sure he’s breathing okay, watching his chest rise and fall with easy breaths.
After assuring myself that Elliot’s alive, I turn off the lights and curl up in a ball on the little couch opposite of him.
It’s a tight fit and so fucking uncomfortable, but at least I’m next to him. He’s going to wake up in the morning and know that I didn't leave. That’s what matters to me.
I’m here if he needs me. Knowing Elliot, he’s had countless drunken nights similar to this one. But this time, he won’t wake up alone.
TWELVE
Elliot
“Fuckkkk,” I groan. My brain is screaming, pounding against my skull with the worst damn headache of my life.
Water.I need water. My mouth feels drier than the Sahara Desert.
I peel my eyes open to find the bright morning sun blurring my surroundings. I rub my eyes for a few seconds, expecting to see my barren condo when I open them. Once I adjust to the light, I shoot to an upright position as my gaze darts around a small, unfamiliar place.
I blink a few times, making sure I’m not dreaming. The ceiling seems to be spinning, warping my view of reality.
Where am I? And how the hell did I end up here?
One thing about me is that I can drink until I’m close to death and not blackout. Never in my life have I been blackout drunk or not remember anything from the night before. I guess it’s my pathetic superpower.
I close my eyes, trying to concentrate as I pinch my browstogether with my thumb and forefinger. I try to rack my brain for anything. Any hint of a memory.
Nothing.Absolutely nothing.
“Dammit,” I curse, running my fingers through my greasy hair.
My eyes widen as my gaze lands on an untouched peanut butter and jelly sandwich resting on the coffee table directly in front of me. I slowly turn my head to the right to find my assistant sleeping on a separate couch beside me.
Oh fuck.
My heart drops straight to my ass.
No.
No, no, no.
This isn't happening.
The longer I stare at her, it all starts coming back to me in bits and pieces.
Me calling into work for the first time since I started at the bank. Showing up to Cellar 23 mid-day and never leaving. A new, young bartender giving me shot after shot. Adam calling my assistant of all people. Roxanne dragging my drunk ass back to her apartment. Roxanne being the perfect human that she is and taking care of me like her life depended on it.
The last thing I recall before passing out for the last time was her soft lips pressed against my forehead. I dreamt about those lips. For the first time in years, I didn't dream about the accident.
I remember wanting to tilt my head and kiss her back. But if I ever had the chance to kiss her full lips, I didn’t want it to be while I was drunk. I would want to be fully aware of every second…every touch.
