Page 87 of Perfect on Paper

“Since when do you drink so much?” I asked, trying to keep it curious rather than judgy.

All I got in response was a hand wave. None of my business, apparently. Okay, fair.

“I don’t think… my head… has ever hurt this much in my life.”

“You took the Tylenol I grabbed you earlier?”

“Yup. Didn’t touch it.” He squeezed his eyes even tighter, then flipped back around to retch into the bowl. Like he said, nothing came out.

It was okay if I rubbed his back, wasn’t it? That wasplatonic enough. I gingerly reached out and pressed my palm flat against Sparkly Sweater to make small circles.

When the retching stopped, Brougham gave a frustrated sob. “Knock me out until it’s over. It’s cruel to keep me conscious right now.”

“It’s just a bit of poisoning, it’ll be over soon. Our bodies don’t like being poisoned.”

“You don’t say.” He caught his breath and kept his eyes closed. He didn’t shrug my hand off, though, so I could only assume it was helping.

The midmorning sun was streaming through the high bathroom window, casting a warm, bright glow over the gleaming white tiles and porcelain tub and sink. All the white probably wasn’t helping his headache any.

“What happened to your hand?” I asked. The redness on his knuckles from last night was gone, replaced by a purply-brown bruise.

“No idea, but it hurts like a bitch.”

“Can I help? Ice, or…?”

“No.” Something about the tone of his voice told me to leave the subject alone.

“Brougham?”

“Mmm?”

“Can we please be friends again?”

Now he opened his eyes, though he didn’t lift his head. “We never stopped.”

I gave a dry laugh.

“Okay, fair,” he said. “You’re right. We stuffed up there, and it’s been weird. I’d really like to be friends.”

Thank god. Thank god I had Brougham. Knowing that I hadn’t destroyed our friendship beyond repair didn’t fixeverything, but it did make me feel like I had something to hold on to, where before I’d been treading water. “Cool.”

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Oh, you know. Been better, but at least I’m not throwing up in my underwear in my teacher’s bathroom.”

I got a small smile out of him at that one. “I’m sorry about the locker.”

“Well, so am I. But maybe my mom was right. Maybe some of my advice was good, but I probably got it wrong all the time. I’m lucky I didn’treallyscrew anything up.”

I thought about what Brougham said about me not having enough information from one letter. I thought about my impression of Brougham at the beginning versus now. How my perception of him, and his issues, had changed. My success rate had always been such a source of pride for me. But how could I have been at such a high percentage? Really?

“You probably did get it wrong sometimes,” Brougham said, his voice weak from straining. “But that was never the point.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean maybe some people genuinely needed advice. But I’d bet you anything a good chunk of those letters were just people who wanted someone to listen to them without judging them, or to give them validation. It’s really powerful to have a safe place to just… let everything out.”

“Are you saying all I was good for was listening?” I asked, straightening where I sat.

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