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I don’t know. She might have a point. My stomach also has a point because it chooses right now to leap up into my throat. I don’t want to hurl right there in the hallway—at least my brain finally kicks in to give me some thoughtful warning—so I move faster than the damn speed of light, hurtling away from the door and into the condo, down the hall past the kitchen. I throw open the bathroom door and hug the throne as I retch up a bit of OJ—swear I’m never touching the stuff again—and spittle. It’s nasty, and it hurts. Sweat pours off my forehead and dribbles into my eyes, which are watering from the force of the heaving. I can’t imagine it looks pretty, and I’m just glad Ayana didn’t see it.
Except when I lean back, wipe my mouth, and flush, I catch a glimpse of leather and denim, and shit fuck shit shit shizzle sticks and fuck nuts. She’s right there. Right in the bathroom doorway.
She crosses her arms, taking a wide stance there. She’s not disgusted. I guess she’s one of those people with a strong stomach. She looks oddly amused, though, and I don’t know if that’s insulting or not. It just reinforces that Ayana was raised tough.
“Shouldn’t I be the one doing that?” She walks into the bathroom and grabs a washcloth off the stack of towels on the rack, and as she wets it, I momentarily panic that the towels are too neat in there, and she’ll know I didn’t put them on the rack—a whole conglomerate of them, the bath towel, then the hand towel, then the washcloth.
Thankfully, she doesn’t notice. Nope, she wrings out the cloth and thumps it onto my forehead with a wet smack. I groan and put a hand up to keep it in place. Then, she follows that up with a glass of water and a tube of toothpaste shoved in my face.
“What’s the toothpaste for?”
“Suck up a little, swish it around your mouth, and swallow. It helps.”
“Gah! You’re not supposed to swallow toothpaste!”
She checks the tube. “Oh, right. Sorry. I’ve always used the natural stuff that’s safe for consumption. Okay, swish it around and spit. Unless you have mouthwash.”
This whole thing is totally humiliating. I stand up because I’m not a bloody child—my god, anything to do with that word is such a terrifying thought right now—and make my way to the sink. Ayana retreats out of the bathroom, giving me my space. I use an actual toothbrush, and after I get the scuzz off my teeth and tongue and the foul taste of upchuck out of my mouth, I actually feel a lot better.
I meet Ayana just around the doorway. She’s leaning against the wall, and her arms are still crossed. When she sees me exit the bathroom, she walks over, reaches up, and pats me on the shoulder like I’m not as broad as a house man-beast looming over her by at least a foot and four times wider than her. In comparison to her teeny, tiny form, I look like a man-beast. I really have to keep my mind from going back to how well our bodies fit together that night, strangely enough, like we denied the rules of physics and science and whatnot.
Fuuuuuucccckkkk, focus. You’ll never get a chance to use said equipment again for anything if you don’t focus and figure out a plan.
Maybe Ayana senses that I’m about to freak out a little because she smiles softly at me. Her eyes are warm. She doesn’t look the least bit afraid, which is kind of crazy. If I were her, I’d be losing my shit. “You’re tough,” she whispers, her voice like ice cream.
What? What’s wrong with the fact that I really like ice cream, and imagining it at the moment is ultra-comforting, even with a rocky stomach? Her eyes travel up to my face again.
“You have to be tough because that scar couldn’t have come from an easy place unless you slipped in the shower or had an accident with a butter knife and a block of cheese. Or maybe it was a lawn mowing thing, and it, like, had a rollover, and you fell onto it face first.”
Anyone else might be offended, but for a guy who has spent the majority of his life having people out and out stare at him, or worst, trying to avoid looking at the scar that bisects his face, it’s nice to have it acknowledged. My brothers would do the same thing—use humor in a trying time. They’d be assholes about it, but of course, it would come from a place of concern and love.
Ayana doesn’t love me—she barely knows me—but I can see that she’s concerned. I also realize how funny, brave, and smart she is. She’s not scared in the least to discuss my scars or to come here and tell me that we’re going to be parents. If that’s not the most terrifying concept in the world, I’m not sure what is. She shouldn’t be the one comforting me. It should be the other way around. And holy fuck, is she really only twenty-two? She did say that, didn’t she?
