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Shit.
I can't put her in a taxi in this state and I don't know her address.
“Avery! Come on.” I repeat the exercise and this time manage to catch her around the waist before her legs buckle again.
She clings to my shirt and murmurs, “I don't feel good.”
Jesus. Worried that, at any minute, somebody could walk up to us and misinterpret this, I cycle options in my not-so-sober mind.
“Are you okay to come back to my room until you feel better?” I ask, as if permission from an inebriated Avery counts for anything.
She doesn't respond, sliding from my grasp again.
As I half drag Avery into the waiting elevator, the ridiculousness of the situation amuses me.
Did I secretly know I'd picked the wrong girl in Avery when I told myself I’ll find a one-night hook-up? Mixed signals didn't help. The enthusiasm in the kiss we shared wasn't matched by Avery's frosty response afterwards. Plus, collapsing on the floor in front of me doesn't scream 'I want you'.
Sighing, I hit the button to the 15th floor and support my new friend against me. I bloody hope she doesn't throw up on my shoes.
Better luck next time, Bryn.
