Page 62 of The Other Guy

I grin. “Ooh, full naming me, huh?”

“Kindly move away from the door.” She no doubt grits out, by the way it sounds.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Can I get you anything? More eggs?” I try not to laugh but it doesn’t work.

I think I hear her gag and then… uh oh. Vomit while…?

Maybe I pushed her too far. Now I feel bad.

“Is it… coming out both ends? Sierra?”

The toilet flushes and she groans. “Okay, do you know what it means to give someone privacy?”

“Right. Moving away from the door now. Just… holler if you need anything!”

“You won’t hear from me. Thank you.”

If only I wasn’t capable of hearing right now.

I take a seat on the chair again and turn up the volume on the TV, hoping to make her (and me) a little more comfortable. I finish watching a full episode of Schitt’s Creek and she still hasn’t emerged from whatever war zone she has entered into so I press pause and decide to risk her wrath and knock on the bathroom door lightly.

“Sierra? You okay?”

“I… not really?”

“What can I do?”

I’m a little afraid of what she’s going to ask of me. Especially when I hear her throw up again. Having had enough, though, I knock once more, announce that I’m coming in and slowly open the door.

The smell is impossible to miss. I mean, it was coming through the door but without the barrier it’s… unpleasant. I cover my nose and try not to make a disgusted sound.

Her tiny body is sitting on the toilet, head hanging into the trash can she’s holding.

“Oh, girl.” I move to her side and gingerly place a hand on her back.

She looks so sad and a little on the pathetic side — in a cute way, of course — when she looks up at me. Face a complete mess. Vomit and tears and snot smeared on her face. “I don’t feel so good.”

“You don’t say? I’m so sorry. Was it the eggs?”

She gags, body retching and hunching over as she throws up a little more but at this point it appears her stomach is mostly empty.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Let’s not discuss food. No, it wasn’t the eggs or you’d be sick, too. I think… it’s a touch of the stomach flu.”

Given the fact that I feel perfectly fine, I’m inclined to believe her.

I grab a wash cloth out of the linen closet and run it under the faucet, careful with the water temperature so it’s lukewarm. Then I wring it out so it’s not dripping and crouch down in front of Sierra, wiping her face before folding it and repeating once more.

I rinse out the cloth and then lift her hair and place the wash cloth on the back of her neck. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

I nod. “You’re welcome.”

“I might be done.” She reaches behind her and flushes the toilet.

“I think I’ve just propelled past the buddy status, don’t you?”

She laughs then groans. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“No need to be.”

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