Page 64 of Lovesick
Crew stops directly in front of me, holding me by my shoulders. “False alarm?”
I want to say yes, but what comes out of my mouth is not a reassuring confirmation. My stomach lets out a rumble that would be a goddamn seven on the Richter scale, and I then humiliatingly proceed to projectile vomit all over Crew’s clean, white shoes.
18
CONFESSIONS FROM HER BEDSIDE TABLE
CREW
Inever liked these shoes anyways.
I’m not particularly squeamish—hockey has given me some pretty thick skin over the years—but as I stare down at the brightly colored, half-digested chunks of food now decorating my sneakers, it’s taking everything in me not to gag and make Merit feel worse.
I carry her the rest of the way to the car, and I try to comfort her while she apologizes over and over again, crying her makeup off. I’ve never felt such primal concern for someone before. I’m ready to flip a U-ie and race to the nearest hospital, but she somehow convinces me to take her home.
I slip her out of the passenger seat and into my arms, taking her house key from her and turning it in the lock. Once I get the door open, I carry her bridal-style across the threshold of her apartment, and my heart cavorts when she nuzzles her head into my chest. She’s got her arms slung around my neck as she clings to me like a koala, muffling the tiny hiccups that roll out of her in a quick succession.
I know our time together has been limited, but I honestly can’t remember my life before her. Everything was somonochromatic—a repetitive, tireless cycle that I was sure I could never escape. Then I saw her, and my whole world was suddenly submerged in effervescent color, scaring away the tyrannical darkness that had ruled over me for far too long.
“Creeew, there’s puke in my hair,” Merit whimpers.
Yep, this is the girl I’m obsessed with.
I tighten my grip, more afraid to let go for my sake than hers. “I’m going to wash it out, Princess. Just hang on a little longer for me, yeah?”
“Okay.”
I’m not really the caretaker type. I’ve dealt with my fair share of drunk girls in the past, but I’ve never run them a bath, let alone washed their hair for them. This is so unlike me. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, but Merit needs me right now, and I’m always going to be there for her.
Getting her upstairs isn’t much of a feat, but the soft sobs that carry over the suffocating silence perforates the membrane of my heart like an invasive procedure. She’s shivering despite the combination of our body heat, goose bumps proliferating rapidly over her bare arms. Not that I was moving at a leisurely pace before, but I catapult into speed demon mode, getting her into the bathroom and turning the bathtub faucet on before she freezes into a popsicle.
The gloam of the night had made it hard for me to get a good look at her, but now, as we stall underneath the fluorescent lights, I can assess the damage more clearly. She has green-tinged vomit matted in strands of her hair, her cheeks have been tarried with streaks of mascara, and burst capillaries branch over the whites of her puffy-lidded eyes. But despite it all, she’s never looked more beautiful.
I plug the stainless-steel stopper into the drain, letting hot water accumulate in the tub as it splashes against acrylic in miniature river rapids. A fine spray shrouds the air, hopefullyemitting enough heat to counteract the cold that clings to Merit like a persistent cough.
Irelyn must have superglued the caution tape to her goddamn body because neither the strenuous dancing nor the puking seems to have unraveled it.
“I’ll get the water ready and then give you your privacy.”
“Don’t leave,” Merit says, swaying on her feet, her pallor still looking exceptionally green. She tugs at her top, letting her arms flop to the sides. “I need help getting this off.”
It gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside that she trusts me enough to undress her, and that’sdefinitelynot a normal response. I’m made of trauma and storm clouds and anger,notglitter and rainbows and butterflies.
So, because I’ll always do what Merit tells me, I slowly begin to unwrap the neon-yellow tape that’s been distracting me for two hours straight. It’s not exactly the way I wanted to rip it off her tonight.
Sliver after sliver, I expose more of that buttery, flawless skin, peeling away the literal and figurative barrier that’s been prohibiting my touch. Her body is just as breathtaking as I remember it—her toned belly, curvaceous hips, and small breasts that fit perfectly in the palms of my hands. And although I want nothing more than to stare at that God-gifted paradise between her legs, I avert my eyes out of respect.
Fuck, it’s hot in here. Is she sober enough to notice how flustered I am?
I lead her over to the bath cautiously, shut the faucet off, and lower her into her own personal hot spring. She situates herself in the water, displacing it in ripples as a contented sigh leaks from her colorless lips.
“This feels nice,” she moans, scooting her butt around to assume the ultimate comfort position, pearlescent droplets sluicing down the contour of her chest.
Don’t look at her boobs, dude. Be a gentleman for once in your life. And Little Crew, don’t get any fucking ideas.
While Merit slow-cooks in the bath, I scavenge the medicine cabinet for a glass that I can use to scoop up water, eventually procuring a plastic toothbrush cup that will do the trick. I also end up crumpling my bow loincloth so I can wrap a towel around my hips.
I never want to see that thing ever again.
