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She wraps one arm around my neck, her eyes lazily opening a tiny crack. “You are my knight in shining armor,” she slurs. “And I’ve got puke on my knees.”
I look down her body till I spot what appear to be bits of semi-digested pizza crust stuck to her skin. “You most certainly have.”
“And you have nice arms,” she mutters as she rests her face against my chest and her body goes limp.
Food poisoning delirium has never been so adorable.
10
ELLIOT
Iwould know this was Charlotte’s place even if no one had told me.
The pastel colors everywhere match the rows of planners, notebooks, sticky notes, pens, and other assorted stationery she keeps on the shelves behind her desk at work.
The tiny studio is in a new building, and it’s sparklingly clean and bright. The only separate room is the bathroom, and since I’ve now been sitting outside its door for fifteen minutes, my ass can attest to how hard the floor is.
“My towels are pink,” Charlotte’s muffled voice declares from the other side.
I chuckle to myself.
“Are they?” I ask the door. “Excellent choice.”
That’s the third random declaration since she’s been in there. It follows “Faucets are weird” and “Flush is a funny word.”
She fell asleep in the car on the way here, her head on my shoulder. I was tempted to ask the driver to keep going all night, and not only because while she was asleep she wasn’t vomiting.
As soon as we stopped outside her building, she woke up and lifted her head. My shoulder immediately felt like a pointless appendage without her resting against it.
I tried to get her to wait in the car while I walked around to help her. But she got out, stood up, and barfed right there on the sidewalk.
After I helped her inside, she staggered straight to the bathroom and shut the door behind her, rambling about puking being a private activity. But there was no way I was going to leave her. She was a bit unsteady on her feet, and the last thing I wanted was for her to pass out in there and whack her head on something without me here to make sure she’s okay.
So here I am. On the floor outside the door, being treated to occasional bathroom-related observations.
I look down at my phone and the search results for “food poisoning symptoms.” Her drunk-like speech had me worried there might be something more serious going on and maybe I should get her to the hospital. But Dr. Google assures me that confusion is not an uncommon symptom along with the fever she seems to have.
At least there haven’t been any retching sounds for a few minutes now.
“How are you doing in there? Ready to come out yet?”
“Cool tiles,” her drifty voice says. “On my cheek.”
“Are you lying on the floor?”
“Hmm.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t fall asleep in there. How about you come out and get into bed where it’s more comfortable?”
Silence.
I look around Charlotte’s home. All of it, apart from the bathroom, is visible from this spot. It would be impossible to live in such a tiny space without her organizational abilities. The bed, a twin, is at the far end by the window, covered in candy-striped bedding. Right next to it is a powder-blue loveseat—I didn’t realize they made them so small. Then there’s the bright white kitchen that consists of sink, fridge, stove, and about three cabinets.
On the opposite wall is a closet and two sets of white drawers, one of which has a TV on top, and above them are rows of shelves lined neatly with books, baskets, boxes, and other containers all in perfectly coordinated pale colors.
She certainly knows how to make the most of a poor storage situation.
“Charlotte? Are you awake?”
