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She turns and throws up again. “What the hell happened? Was she drinking?” I bark out.
“No. She hasn’t had a sip, I swear,” Hannah says.
I lean into her. “Mak, I’m going to pick you up and take you to the bathroom—”
“No, don’t move me.” She heaves. “I’ll be fine.”
She’s anything but fine. “What’d she eat?” I demand. No one answers me. I cock my head toward the girls. “What the hell did she eat?”
“I don’t know! A burger, maybe? We all ate the same thing. If she’s sick from the food, we all would be.”
Goddammit. I told her not to drink. “Okay, up we go.” She tries to fight me, but she has no energy. I lift her in my arms and carry her inside to the downstairs bathroom.
“Put me down,” she groans, but I refuse. “Please, I’m going to—”
I skid to my knees and hold her hair back as she expels another round into the toilet.
“It’s okay. I got you. Get it all out.”
She throws up three more times before the last of her energy zaps out. She rests her head on my lap and, shortly after, falls asleep. There’s a knock, and Jenny peeks her head in.
“How is she?”
“Sleeping. I think the worst is over.”
“I feel so bad. I know it’s got to be gross to deal with. You want me to take her home? I can—”
“I got her.”
“You sure? She can—”
“I’m fucking sure. I would appreciate it if you stopped questioning my intentions.”
Her smile drops for a split second before she catches herself and plasters it back on. “Okay. Sorry. Just trying to help. Have her call me in the morning so I know she’s okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
She nods and shuts the door behind her. I drag a hand down my face. Great. Now I look like a dick. But her feelings aren’t my main priority.
“Ben?” Makayla groans in my lap.
“Yeah? Do you need to be sick again?”
She barely raises her head. “No. Please take me home?”
“Yeah. You got it.” I stand up with her in my arms and walk through the house. Hannah and Bridget are in the living room, waiting. “She’s fine. I’m taking her home.”
“Call us if anything changes. Tell her I love her.”
I nod to Hannah. “I will.” I secure her in the passenger seat and drive home. She passes out immediately. When we get to the apartment, I carry her up and inside.
“Babe,” I say, trying to wake her up. Her passing out so quickly after being sick doesn’t sit well with me. “I need you to open your eyes for me.” She groans and snuggles her face into my chest.
My worry heightens, triggering my anger. Did she drink just to get back at me? I was only looking out for her. I’ve seen too many close calls with people mixing booze and prescription drugs. If this is a game to one-up me, it’s gone too far.
She’s dead weight in my arms as I carry her to my room and change her out of her clothes and into one of my T-shirts. Laying her on my bed, I position her on her side in case she needs to vomit again. Still not feeling at ease, I climb in next to her, my eyes trained on her every move.
Hours pass before I finally fall asleep.
