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“Someone grew up and put their honest undies on.”
I soften my tone and explain myself. “I don’t pity you for the reason you think. I pity you for having a boyfriend who failed to get you off.”
My response is met with silence.
“Was it every time?”
Groaning, she shifts her neck from side to side as if it’s sore. “I’m not discussing this with you. I should’ve never told you in the first place.”
“Jesus, Chloe, I won’t tell anyone you own a vibrator. It’s not uncommon, but if you’re ashamed of your sexuality—”
“I’m not ashamed of my sexuality,” she snaps with a sneer.
“Appears that way to me. You pleasure yourself. Who the fuck cares? I’m more concerned that you consider it weird that you masturbate but not weird that your boyfriend didn’t give two shits if you were satisfied.”
“Contrary to your belief, not every relationship is about sex.”
“True, but Kent not giving a shit about satisfying you wasn’t a healthy relationship. It was a selfish one.”
“I don’t like being around you,” she huffs out.
“Tough shit. We’re neighbors. Get used to it.”
She shifts in her seat to face me. “Speaking of that, why would you buy the house next door? What’s your play here?”
“Don’t flatter yourself by thinking I’m secretly in love with you,” I say with a laugh. “It’s a nice home in a decent neighborhood with great landscaping.”
Lies. The landscaping sucks ass.
“Oh, look, we’re here,” I say while pulling into her driveway. “No more time for your paranoia of me moving in to ruin your life.”
“Until you tell me why, it’s what I’m assuming.”
I park the car. “Keep assuming wrong then.”
She starts to talk, no doubt to continue this ridiculous argument, but her hand closes over her mouth. “Oh shit,” she groans.
Fuck!
Those are never good words to hear from a drunk person with, most likely, a low alcohol tolerance.
I turn off the car. “Oh shit, what?”
The door flies open, and her head disappears from my view.
Motherfucker.
She’s a damn puker.
I unbuckle my seat belt and walk to her side. Sure enough, there’s vomit. It’s not just outside but also on the side of her mouth and on her top.
I drag my flannel off, step to the side of the puke, and wipe her mouth with it. “Swear to God, you’d better not fucking flip me off tomorrow morning.”
After I’m finished using my favorite shirt as a puke rag, I assist her out of the car. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight me, but I can see the humiliation on her face. I’m the last person she wants help from. My arm is on her shoulder, the other at the dip of her back, and her side is resting against mine. She points to the door key on the ring, and I unlock the door before walking in. A lamp in the room’s corner provides light for me to walk through without running into furniture.
“I’m usually not up for drunk babysitting,” I say when she points toward what I’m guessing is her bedroom. “Not even for my little sister, who can hold her liquor better than you. Jesus, you damn lightweight.”
She argues with a groan and a tip of her middle finger, and I can’t stop myself from laughing.
