“I’ll help you,” I say. “But you just lie here while I clean up, and then I’ll tell you when it’s time to go to the chair.”
“Okay,” he says, closing his eyes again.
“I put a bowl over here in case you need to throw up,” I add.
He lets out a bitter laugh. “I haven’t puked from being drunk since high school.”
“You probably won’t need it, but it’s here, just in case.” At least I hope he doesn’t.
He sinks back into the pillow. “Why are you taking care of me?”
“Because,” I say, thinking it’s a weird question. It never occurred to me to not take care of him. “You need to be taken care of.”
“I wouldn’t take care of you,” he says flatly. “If you were lying here, I wouldn’t take care of you.”
The words land like a slap. But then I think about Mallory’s stories, and the way he is at Beans to Go. That person is good. He’s real and that man’s inside him. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to let him out.
“You know what?” I say softly. “I think you would.”
“Bullshit,” he snaps, pissed. “I would not.”
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. “You would.” Then I walk out of the room and head to the bathroom to toss the trash.
I stay longer than I need to, gripping the counter until my knuckles ache. Needing the quiet and the privacy to sort out my stupid feelings. Part of me believes he wouldn’t help me if our situations were reversed—he’s drunk, bitter, and scared. Part of me doesn’t believe him at all.
It’s either stupidity or instinct, but I have a feeling I’m going to be hurt either way.
Chapter Sixteen
Alex
I wake up with a splitting headache that gets worse the second I crack my eyes open. For a couple of seconds, I don’t recognize the room. Then it hits me: I’m in my rearranged room, at my parents’ house, and Finley is here with me.
Finley.
I roll over, but the other side of the bed is empty. The covers are rumpled, but both pillows look untouched. Why isn’t she in bed and why am I sleeping in it?
Groaning, I flop on my back and close my eyes.
Oh. God. What happened last night?
I got drunk off my ass is what happened, then stumbled home like an idiot. Did I crawl into bed with her? Horror seizes me. The last thing I ever wanted was to make her uncomfortable.
But then the stinging in my knee and my palm remind me that I tripped in a pothole in the road. And that Finley patched me up.
I sit up, swing my legs off of the bed, then cradle my face in my hands as my equilibrium settles.
If she hadn’t already pegged me as a first-class asshole, then last night sealed it. Did she sleep in the bed with me? Doubtful. Which leaves the chair.
I glance over and see a blanket artfully draped over the back like it belongs there. A blanket that wasn’t there when I left last night.
My stomach sinks. Of course she took the chair.
Shame burns through me. Is she ready to bolt? Has she already left? I say a silent prayer of thanks when I see her suitcase on the floor. It’s closed, but it’s still there.
Sunlight streams through the cracks in the blinds. The clock says 10:12. I haven’t slept this late since I was in college.
As bad as I feel, I probably look worse. A shower and a toothbrush should come first, but I can’t shake the need to find Finley. I need to know if she’s upset with me and if so, how to fix it.
