Page 12 of Captured Immune

He places a tender finger under my chin and lifts my head until my eyes meet his. “Were you crying, babe? Your eyes are all puffy.”

I draw back from his touch. It’s doing things to me. And if he calls mebabeagain, I might let him doanythinghe wants to me. “Why didn’t you take your car instead of the bike?”

“I didn’t take either.”

“Then how did you get here?”

“I walked.”

“You walked?” That’s at least a two- or three-hour walk.

“Yeah. I’m fucked up. I know better than to drive like this.” He runs his fingers through his dark-chocolate hair and shakes the water out. Little droplets sprinkle onto my arms, but I don’t care. I’m just relieved he’s here, and that the first person he thought to go to while in this drunken state is me.

Does that mean he wants to fix things? DoIwant that? I think about it for all of two seconds before I almost laugh at myself. Who am I kidding? Of course I want that.

“Why didn’t you call an Uber?” I ask.

He scoffs a little. “I did. The dude drove me most of the way before kicking me outta his car.”

“Why?”

“He asked me questions like where I was goin’ and who I was tryna see. He said somethin’ about how taking a drunk man to a woman’s apartment meant trouble. So he forced me to get out and drove off.”

Mentally, I applaud the Uber driver. Taking a drunk man to a woman’s placecanmean bad news. After surviving an abusive three-year relationship with a drunk, I know just how terrible those situations can get. However, with drunk Trey, I feel completely safe. I have full confidence that he would never hurt me. At least not physically. Emotionally, I’m stupidly wrecked.

“How much did you have to drink?” I ask.

His shoulders slump like I’ve caught him in a lie. Another invisible bag of heavy sand and sadness dumps over me—from him. “Please, don’t be mad.”

“How much, Trey?”

He glowers at the carpet. “Maybe, like, two bottles.”

“Of?”

“Vodka. Tequila. Bourbon.”

I squint at him. “You just named three things.”

“All righty then. So I hadthreebottles.”

My jaw drops. “You had three bottles of hard liquor? Like, all of it?”

“Probably. I don’t really remember...”

“How are you still standing?” There’s no way he had that much. That would kill him.

“I have a high tolerance.”

No one’s tolerance is that high.

After kicking off his shoes, he heads to my couch and falls onto it with a plop.

I cringe a little. “Trey, you’re wet.”

He shoots back up, stumbles over, and leans against me as I steady him. Tingles shoot down my legs from the warm hand he places on the small of my back. I’ve missed his touch.

“I’m sorry,” he slurs. “It’s just that I’ve been walking forever. I really need to sit.”

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