Page 70 of The One
“What hurts?”
“Head. Stomach.” She moved her mouth off the seat and into the openness of the toilet. Nothing came out when she heaved. “Spinning. Everything is.” She dry-heaved again.
“Where are your clothes?”
She attempted to raise her hand and point.
“I’ll be right back.” In the bedroom, I said to the guy, “Where are her clothes?”
He didn’t respond.
“Where are her fucking clothes?”
He gradually looked from his phone to me, and like before, he just silently gawked at me.
What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
I didn’t bother waiting for the motherfucker to answer.
I searched the room instead and found a heap of clothes on the floor, almost under the bed. I grabbed the whole pile and brought it into the bathroom, dropping it on the counter, sorting through them until I found a dress. Before I could put it on her, I picked up a towel by the sink and soaked it under the faucet, adding some hand soap.
I knelt beside her. “I’m going to clean your face, all right?”
She let out a groan as I dragged the towel over her lips and cheeks, trying to clean off some of the puke that had dried before rubbing the coldness over her forehead. I hoped the water would cool her down a little. I was sure she was hot based on how clammy she felt. I then washed her arms and legs.
“I see why she loves you.”
As she looked at me, her pupils were blown, her expression pulled, like she was half with it and half gone.
“Come on, Penelope. Let’s get you dressed.”
I pulled at the neck of the dress and positioned it over her head, helping her guide her arms through.
“My body is better than hers, isn’t it? My tits are bigger. My ass, better.”
I tugged at the material until it was covering her back.
“I’m never jealous of her.” Her voice was scratchy and thick. “But I’m jealous that she has you.” She was wobbly as she released the toilet. “I should have gotten to you first.”
This was the booze talking and whatever else she’d ingested tonight.
I wasn’t listening to a word of it.
I put her arm around my shoulders and helped her onto her feet, yanking the dress as low as it would go. “Can you walk?”
She turned her body, putting her other arm on my shoulder, and she stood in front of me. “I wish you were mine.”
“Penelope, can you walk?”
“I wish you were going to NYU for me …”
If I tossed her over my shoulder, turning her upside down to carry her, something told me she’d feel even worse and probably puke on me. So, I put my arm behind her knees and one on her back, and I lifted her against me.
She folded her arms around me and rested her face in my neck. “Right where I’m supposed to be.” She sighed, and it sounded like it was full of pain. “I love you.” The scent of vomit was almost too much for me to handle. “I love you so much … Rhett.”
Jesus Christ.
As I got us into the bedroom, I said to the dude, “You’re a fucking asshole.”
