Page 38 of Running Into You
Callum:Nice. Want to grab a beer and some food later? Actually catch up when you’re not obsessing over your girl?
Shit. I did owe Callum a hangout after being a dick at our last one. Betty still hasn’t responded to my vague ask to do something tonight. Fuck it.
Me:Sounds great. Let me know when and where. Still not my girl.
I convince myself that this is a good thing. I don’t have plans set with Betty and I don’t want her to think I’m just sitting around waiting to see her. I send her a quick text, trying my best to sound casual.
Me:Hey. Didn’t hear back from you so I made other plans.
Did that make me sound like I’m pissed? I hate figuring out the tone of texts. I type out a follow-up.
Me:If you’re dying of a hangover, text “help” and I’ll come running.
I throw on a T-shirt and will myself to stop obsessing, but the sound of a new text has me jogging back to my phone.
Betty:Help
Grinning, I gather an assortment of supplies in a bag and walk down the hall to her apartment, knocking when I get there. She opens the door slowly.
“Did you have to knock so loudly?” She groans. Her eyes are barely open, and she is three shades of green. She’s wearing pajamas that are several sizes too big for her and they make her look like a kid who’s gotten into her mom’s closet. “You got a haircut.” She observes. “It looks really nice.” I’m not sure how she can tell, her eyes are almost closed.
“That bad?” I say as quietly as I can. She nods and looks like she immediately regrets the movement, holding her head in her hands. She gingerly makes her way to the couch and curls herself into the fetal position. I cover her with a blanket and sit down on the couch next to her. I start digging in the bag I’ve brought over.
“First things first,” I say. “You need fluids.” Pulling out a bottle of Gatorade, I crack it open and hand it to her. I then hand her two ibuprofens. “Drink.”
“I don’t want to,” she whines, her face all screwed up.
“You have to. You can do this, Betty. One drink at a time.” I help her sit up and she pops the pills in her mouth and washes them down with the sports drink. “That’s my girl.”
“I think I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I might be dying.”
“Nope.”
“Just gonna die a little bit.”
“No dying allowed,” I say, standing up. “Keep sipping on the Gatorade. I’m going to make you something to eat.” She mumbles something from her blanket that I don’t quite make out. Taking my bag with me to the kitchen, I start to arrange the things I’ve brought on the counter.
The best-known cure for a hangover is grease and I’m about to make her the greatest breakfast sandwich she’s ever had. At my apartment, I had assumed she would have eggs, and checking the fridge I find I was correct. I find her smallest frying pan and start heating it on the stove. I fry the egg in butter and pop an English muffin in the toaster. When the egg is getting closer to being done, I add the deli ham to the pan to heat it up. The toaster pops and I grab the English muffin, burning my fingers in the process. I butter them and then stack the egg, ham, and cheese on the bottom piece in that order. I add the top to finish, plate it, and carry it back to the invalid on the couch. Her eyes widen at the sight of the sandwich.
“I’m not sure I can eat that,” she says with a swallow while slowly pushing herself into a sitting position.
“You can and will,” I say, handing her the plate. “That sandwich got me through every college party and pub crawl I was ever on; it will get you through a girls night. How much wine did you drink?”
“All of it,” she said miserably. I fight a grin.
“Eat.” I instruct on my way to clean up the kitchen. “It will help.” I really haven’t made much of a mess in the kitchen and it only takes me a couple of minutes to clean and tidy. When I go back to the living room, I’m pleased to see her plate is empty.
“That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” she says, resting her head on the armrest of the couch and looking up at me. Her eyes aren’t quite back to their normal shape, but some color has returned to her face.
“Right?” I say, lifting her legs so I can slide under them. “I can’t tell you how many of those I’ve made in the past decade.” She looks so tired; I want to wrap her in a blanket and put her to bed. “You should try to sleep now that you’ve got something in your stomach.”
“Sorry I can’t hang out tonight, on account of me dying and all. You made plans?” Her voice is a bit higher than it was and her eyes are focused on me. Is she nervous?
“Yeah, Callum wants to hang out again, so I’m going to meet up with him,” I tell her. Am I imagining this, or did her body just relax a bit?
