My lips perk. When Danny asked if he could sleep on my couch, all I saw were negatives. I never thought it could benefit me.
“That would be great.”
Danny’s shadow stops moving away from the door when I shout his name. “While you’re there, can you do me a favor?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Willow
My bare feet shuffle along the floorboards as I make the eight steps between my bed and my door. I feel like death warmed up. Last night was. . . I don’t have words. Horrendous. Disgusting. I’m neverevereating Chinese food again. If it isn’t bad enough I passed wind in front of a stranger, my dormitory only has communal bathrooms. It’s been a horrible five hours, and I’d give anything to restart—minus the gobbling of uncooked chicken.
After gripping the doorknob with a sweat-coated hand, I swing open my door. “It’s 9 AM on a Sunday; what the hell do you want?”
A man I’d guess to be early to late-twenties balks when he sees me. It’s not his fault. I’m braless, shoeless, and pants-less. I can barely see through the bags swelling under my eyes, and the minute bit of mascara I had on yesterday is smeared on my cheek. I can’t see it, but I can feel it.
“Yep. That’s vomit,” I murmur through a gag when his eyes zoom in on a blob of brown I was too woozy to handle at 6 AM.
I rest my head on the doorframe before raising my bloodshot eyes to his. “What do you want?” I think that’s what I say. I can’t be certain, though. My pulse is thumping into my ears too loudly to be confident of anything.
“Ah. . .” His wide eyes drop to a clipboard in his hand. “I have a delivery for a Willow.” He returns his eyes to me. “Is that you?”
“Yep.” I do a one-handed clap, demanding he cough up the goods.
When he fails to immediately jump to my command, I attempt to snatch the bag out of his hand. He yanks it back with barely a second to spare, his dramatics too much for my thumping head.
I take back my hate of his theatrics when his high-pitched tone drills through my eardrums, “You’re the third Willow I’ve approached this morning, so I’ve got to be certain it’s you before I can hand over the goods.”
I shove him backward by his fancy-schmancy satin shirt. “Look, mate, just keep it. I don’t care what it is. It’s yours. I’ve got dying to do, so I don’t have time for this shit.”
He’s saved from having my door slammed in his face when he asks, “Do your. . .fartssmell like a potato chip sandwich you forgot to take out of a gym bag at the end of the semester?”
His question resurrects me from the dead. “Excuse me?!” My girly voice is as high as his perfectly manicured brow.
“I’m just reading what it says here.” He spins his clipboard around to face me then taps on a handwritten sheet attached to it. After turning it back to himself, he continues reading, “It’s not a fresh chip sandwich smell. It’s the acidic scent you get when you open the moldy packaging to inspect the watery contents at the bottom, because you’re stunned something that was once a solid mass has turned to mush.”
He raises his eyes to mine, his expression deadpan. “Is that you?”
I have no clue how he’s keeping such a straight face. Mine is flaming with embarrassment, because no matter how much I wish what he’s saying is inaccurate, it’s spot on. That’s exactly what the horrible stench expelling from me last night and most of this morning smelt like.
“What’s in the bag?”
Hearing the threat in my tone, the sassy-faced man takes a step back. “I can’t tell you that without proof you’re the intended receiver.”
“Oh. . . you want proof?”
Finally, his gills green. It isn’t my attitude that reeks of pompousness causing his whitening cheeks. It’s me turning my bloodshot,I’m minutes from barfing on your hideous shirteyes to the vomit bucket leaning against my single bed. My room is dark, but not dark enough to hide the tragedy that occurred here last night.
“It’s fine!” he swears, halting my steps to the bucket mid-stride. “I’m satisfied you are who you say you are.”
I return my eyes to his like I’m a zombie seconds from sucking out his brains. “Are you sure? I don’t mind giving you proof. I’d hate for you to get in trouble.”
He thrusts a bag of goodies into my chest. His shove is so forceful, I topple a few steps back. “It’s fine. We’re good.”
He charges down the hallway so fast he’s nothing but a blur. My steps back to my bed are nowhere near as brisk. I stomp the eight paces like I’m an elephant, and the paper bag filled withgod knows whatis my trunk.
I flop onto my mattress headfirst. I sweated so much overnight, my pillow is damp, but I don’t care. Clean sheets, showering, and all those other basic hygienic things people do every day can wait until I’m not dying.
If only my curiosity could be cured as quickly.
