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"Both." Drake smiled a crooked smile at me. Then, he closed his eyes and swayed a bit, his face blanching. "Oh, God. Please leave, Katie. I think I'm going to puke…"
I put my arm around him and turned him towards the toilet. "I'll help you."
"No, no. Please go…" He made a face and leaned over the toilet. He coughed and waved a hand at me, as if to make me leave and so I did, closing the door behind me.
"Let me know if you need me."
I heard him retch and then some sounds I didn't really want to hear as he vomited. He coughed and sputtered for a while and then I heard the water running in the sink.
"Oh, God," he muttered.
"Can I get you anything?" I called through the bathroom door.
"A time machine so I can go back to before I drank those vodka shooters?"
I smiled. "No can do. How does sympathy and a cold cloth on your forehead sound?"
"That sounds good," he said and opened the door. His cheeks were flushed and he shook his head. "What an idiot. You'd think as a medical man I'd know enough not to mix booze."
"You’re also a human, undern
eath the godlike-persona of a highly specialized neurosurgeon. Come to bed," I said and put my arm around his waist. He threw an arm over my shoulder. Together, we walked to the bed.
"Not so godlike when I'm puking."
"Not so much." I steered him to his side of the bed
Then, I finished undressing him, removing his shirt, jeans and socks so that he stood before me with only his boxer briefs on.
"I promised you several orgasms tonight, I seem to recall…"
"You can take care of that promise tomorrow," I said as I helped him lie down on the bed.
I went back to the washroom and wet a washcloth for his forehead.
"Right now," I said, draping it across his brow. "You should try to sleep. I'll bring a trash can so you can use it in the night if you need it."
"Not very romantic, when your fiancé is too sick to make love," he murmured, his eyes closing as I covered him up.
I kissed his cheek and he made a kissing motion with his mouth but didn't try to kiss me. I turned the light off and went to the bathroom to do my own nightly ablutions. Poor Drake. I'd only seen him drunk a few times. He was a pleasant-enough drunk, not belligerent or whiny. Still, I wish he could go back in time and not drink the vodka shooters, but I could imagine him doing it to numb the pain.
We always had tomorrow and the rest of the week to make up for this disaster of a date night.
Still, I lay awake for a long time that night, with Drake snoring softly beside me, thinking of Drake and Sam. I bet she was enjoying him, watching him get progressively drunker, losing a bit of that tight control he liked to keep over himself. Was she hoping he'd lose enough control that she could step in and take advantage?
I imagined it – his voice would be a bit louder, his words less carefully chosen, his smile more free.
I'd have to get him to drink a little more in my company now and then, so I could enjoy him when he lost a bit of control. Once more, I was jealous of Sam – jealous that she got Drake when he was a fun drunk, not one who was puking and falling asleep on the bed. She got to enjoy him at work, when he was doing what he did for a living, when he followed his passion. I got him the rest of the time.
It had to be enough, but there was a part of me that couldn’t help but feel like I didn’t get the best of him the way she did.
The next morning, Drake called Michael early and asked for the day off.
"I hate doing it," he said to me as I lay in bed beside him. "But I'm pretty much good for nothing."
He spent the morning lying in the shade by the pool with sunglasses on, drinking copious amounts of water and juice and generally taking it very easy. I joined him after my shower and a quick breakfast.
"So tell me what an asshole I was last night," he said, a rueful expression on his face.
