Page 41 of Eye Candy

“Get the trash can!” I barked. I meant Sonya or Francis or Greta. Someone I knew. But Floss’s friend was the fastest. She appeared out of nowhere with the basket I usually kept throws in and pushed it in front of Joe, just as another stream of barf gushed from him like a champagne exorcism. It didn’t work perfectly—the basket was woven—but it contained the worst.

“Spaghetti and Meatballs, the Reunion Episode,” Jemima said sadly. “The One with the Regurgitated Meatballs.”

My brother took the water glass and chugged the rest of it.

At a loss, I went to the kitchen for more water. Greta was shepherding people out the door. Before she left, Greta patted my shoulder and murmured to call me if I wanted to talk. I appreciated that she knew I needed privacy more than I needed help.

“I’m finished here,” Buzz said, putting the last of the containers back in their bag.

“Thank you, Buzz. You were great.”

They smiled. “Pay it, don’t say it.”

“Tip is on the table by the front door.”

“Thanks. Good luck with”—they made a circular motion with one hand, encompassing the situation—“all this.”

Joe really knew how to clear a room. My brother, his girlfriend, my scammer, and her friend were the only guests remaining now.

The worst of Joe’s expulsions were now complete. When Jemima went to help him to his feet, I intercepted. It was clear Joe liked this girl, and it was far too early in their relationship for her to have to clean vomit off him. My brother may not take any of the advice I gave him, or appreciate the things I did for him, but I could at least protect a small bit of his pride.

Joe took the arm I offered—humiliation had temporarily humbled him—and staggered to his feet, groaning.

“Where are your cleaning supplies?” Jemima asked.

I shook my head. “Don’t bother. I can?—”

She held up a hand. “I used to be a nanny. I can get vomit out of anything.”

“No—”

“Chase, just tell me.”

“Under the sink.”

“I’ll help you get him to the bathroom,” Floss said to me, and I couldn’t protest because Joe weighed a ton.

“I’ll do nothing,” her friend said, flopping onto the sofa with her phone. “I’ve done enough.”

“Make yourself at home,” I told her, trying not to pant under Joe’s weight. “The entertainment unit is there.” I nodded because I couldn’t point. “Soda’s in the fridge, if you want. Floss, we’re aiming for the third door on the left.”

Together, one arm each, we maneuvered Joe to my guest bathroom. His limbs were buttered noodles, but as his stomach settled, his attitude returned, and he trash-talked me the entire way. I knew he was embarrassed and looking for someone to blame, so I tried not to take it personally. But the recycling comment had stung.

In the bathroom, Floss propped my brother up against the tiled wall. I toed off my shoes, and placed my glasses and my watch carefully on the tray I kept beside the sink for exactly this purpose. Now that I couldn’t see farther than six feet in front of me, it was easier to pretend I wasn’t being watched as I pulled my sweater over my head and folded it carefully on the little chair. I rolled my shirt sleeves and stepped into the large shower to rinse my pants with the detachable showerhead. Luckily, I hadn’t caught much, and it washed down the drain with little effort.

“OK,” I said with all the enthusiasm the situation warranted. (None.) “Come on, Joe. Your turn.”

I tried to maneuver my brother under the hot spray, but in a manner consistent with our entire lives, he fought me the whole way, even though this was what was best for him.

“Come on, Joe.” We struggled. “Just get in.”

“Youget in!”

“I’m not getting in, bonehead, you’re the one who vomited on himself.”

“Don’t call me a bonehead, you’re the bonehead! And a cockblock!”

I stopped shoving. “What?”

---