At my movement, he withdraws his hand, returning it to his lap—but before he can, I reach out and grab it, holding it in front of me and inspecting it. His skin feels rough but smooth at the same time, that strange juxtaposition that only a man’s hand can be. I flatten my palm against his.
“Even your hands are huge.” I’m fascinated. I lace my fingers through his and note the pale baby hairs on his knuckles.
He is giving me... a Look. Like a mixture of hunger, apprehension, and tense restraint, and as I analyze it, I’m seized by a thought. If I yanked on his arm, he’d end up in my lap. Could I get him to kiss me? Could I kisshim? God knows I’ve thought of almost nothing else for the past week.
I dismiss the idea as quickly as it originates. If Ben ended up on top of me, I’d probably die of suffocation.
Ben breathes out slowly, disconnecting our hands and setting mine in my lap, then heads in the direction of my kitchen. I hear water running, then shut off. When he comes back, he places a glass of water in front of me. “Drink.”
I do as he says, chugging huge gulps like a dehydrated camel.
“Not so fast,” he warns. I slow down, taking delicate sips like the lady I am.
“Now. Do you feel like you’re going to get sick?”
“No,” I respond, deeply offended. “I know how to hold my alcohol.”
Actually, I’m lying. I’d felt a little nauseous on the way home but chalked it up to being carried and all the jostling that came with it—but now that I’m sitting down, the queasiness hasn’t eased. The thought of vomiting in front of Ben is so disturbing I promptly lose my buzz.
He eyes me dubiously, clearly unmoved by my booze-fueled bravado. “Where do you keep a bucket?”
“In my laundry area...” I point vaguely down the hall and flop backon the couch, closing my eyes. My head is spinning. My happy-drunk high is wearing off, reality is setting in, and it’s not pretty.
He returns with the plastic bucket and sets it on the coffee table. The couch cushion depresses beside me as he sits down.
“Are you staying? You don’t have to stay.”Please stay.
“I’ll stay for a while, if that’s okay with you.”
“That’d be nice,” I murmur sleepily, not opening my eyes.
He lifts my head slightly and slides a pillow under my cheek. The last thing I remember is the feel of his fingers on my forehead, smoothing my hair back as I drift off.
I wake up sometime later—minutes, hours? There’s no way to know—groaning as I roll onto my side. As soon as I shift my weight, I know I’m going to be sick. I bolt upright, groping for the bucket.
Ben grabs it first, thrusting it under my chin just as I am forcefully sick. I start to stand but he stops me with a hand to my arm.
“What are you doing? Don’t get up.”
“Bathroom,” I croak.
He helps me up, walking me down the hall with one arm clasped around my waist. When we reach the bathroom, I collapse on the floor in front of the toilet.
I point shakily to the vanity drawers. “Can you... hair tie...” I rasp out as another wave of nausea hits me. I bend over the bowl, heaving, then flush as soon as humanly possible. I can’t believe Ben is witnessing this.
The weird thing is, I’m both horrified and grateful that he’s here. Ben’s the last person I would choose to see me at my lowest—and make no mistake, it doesn’t get more rock bottom than my bathroom floor. I’ll need to join the Witness Protection Program after this.
On the other hand, who wants to be alone when they’re sick? I’ve always had someone to hold my hair back—my mom, my grandma, any one of a hundred sorority sisters—and it’s one of the most basic human desires, to be taken care of in times of distress.
I can’t decide if I want him to leave or stay. My head pounds with the conflict. And the alcohol. And the couch-induced head injury. So basically, I’m throbbing all over. I am a scalding-hot mess.
He sets the bucket on the floor of my bathtub and I hear him rummaging around in the drawers for a rubber band. I reach my hand out for it blindly but grasp nothing but air.
I startle when I feel his hands in my hair, gently gathering it up and tying it back so the loose strands are out of my face. I say a silent but fervent prayer that I don’t have puke in my hair.
“Thank you,” I breathe, bracing my head on the bowl with an arm.
“You’re welcome.”
