“Pantry,” he whispers like it’s top-secret intel, then nods sharply.
“Okay,” I say as I get to my feet. “You stay right here. Don’t move.”
“So I can just stay here on the bed?” He pats the mattress with both hands then quickly jerks his right hand back. “Ow.”
“Yes, Alex. Stay on the bed and don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
I head for the door, then turn back. “How many beers did you have?”
“I don’t know,” he says defensively.
“Take a guess.”
He shrugs. “Five. Or maybe six.”
“Great. So, you were basically at a frat party.”
He perks up. “Where’s a frat party?”
Shaking my head, I say, “No more frat parties for you.” I add a glass of water to my mental list.
I creep down the stairs. A lamp glows on the kitchen counter, enough to guide me to the pantry. I shut the door before flipping on the light, then dig around until I find rubbing alcohol and bandages, a couple large enough for his knee. But then I grab the whole kit, just in case I missed some of his wounds. Next, I snag a glass of water, some ibuprofen, and a big bowl—insurance against a drunken dash to the bathroom.
When I get back upstairs, Alex is sprawled sideways across the bed, his legs dangling over the side, his arms splayed like a starfish.
I step inside, and his eyes snap open like a horror-movie jump scare. I nearly shriek.
“Finley, be careful,” he warns with grave seriousness. “The room is spinning and you might fall off.”
“I have gravity shoes,” I say with a chuckle. “I’ll be okay. But it’s good that you laid down.”
“I fell backwards and I can’t get up.” He flails his arms. “I’m like a turtle.”
I don’t usually find drunk men funny, but there’s something so vulnerable about him I can’t help laughing. “Well, at least you fell down on the bed instead of denting the floor.”
He pats the mattress with both hands. “This must be my bed, ‘cause it’s really comfortable.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that is your bed,” I say, even though he’s patting the middle.
I study him, trying to decide where to start. He’s still wearing his shoes, so I start there. I set the supplies on the nightstand, then kneel in front of him to untie his laces.
“What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously. “You going to take advantage of me?”
For a moment I think he’s making fun of me for not letting him sleep in the bed, but it’s obvious he has no idea what he’s saying. “Drunk Alex is funny. Who knew?”
“Taking my shoe off, that’s where it starts,” he says seriously. “Then you work your way up.”
I can’t see his face, so I can imagine his expression. “Don’t flatter yourself. I stop at the knees.”
“I’m not a bad person, Finley,” he blurts, voice suddenly raw.
The smile slips off my face. My chest aches. “I never said you were a bad person.”
“But you think I am,” he says, defeated. “You’re just too nice to say it. Everyone thinks it.”
“No,” I say softly, tugging off his shoe. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Alex.”
His head pops up and he stares at me on the floor. “Why not?”
