“I’ll be fine, man,” I tell him, peeking through one eyelid. When did they get so heavy?
He’s looming over me like a dark shadow. His eyes are narrowed, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth.
“What?” I ask when he doesn’t move back to his side of the room like he should have.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me, man. I’ve been drinking since I was thirteen. I can handle a few beers.”
“A few?” he asks, obviously not believing me.
“Fine, more than a few. I’ll be fine. Just go to sleep. There’s only so much scowling I can take from you.”
“I don’t scowl.”
“You scowl,” I retort, and then I suddenly feel way too hot. My feet kick out, sending the sheets tumbling to the floor in a heap. My stomach churns.
Whit glances at them and then back at me.
“I’ll put them on my bed tomorrow,” I feel the need to tell him even though the words are thick and hard to get out.
He bends down, unable to help himself, and places them on the end of my bed, at the far corner. They’re in a pile. He probably wants to fold them neatly. And iron them.
“Don’t you dare fold my sheets,” I say. “It’s unnatural.”
“There’s nothing unnatural about folding sheets.”
“You’re a freak.”
He scoffs and folds his arms across his chest. This is the most aggressive I’ve been toward him. We’ve never verbally sparred before. Usually, he just scowls at me, and I tease him. I’ll probably regret this in the morning.
“Ugh, I feel like shit all of a sudden,” I moan, clutching my stomach. It’s churning like I’ve been on a boat adrift at sea. Not that I’ve ever been on a boat. But I can imagine.
“You’re going to vomit, aren’t you?” he asks.
“I nevervomit,” I say just as I turn to my side and unload my stomach onto my bed.
Disgusting. It dribbles down my chin and squishes against my arm.
Whit rushes to grab the garbage can by my bed and thrusts it under my chin as I empty the rest of my stomach contents inside.
God, I’m a winner.
I glance sheepishly up at Whit when I'm done, knowing the entire room smells. I smell.
I smelled before, but I’m worse now.
“Sorry. That’s never happened before.”
He huffs, setting the trashcan down on the floor and then moving to the window, pulling it open to air out the stench from the room. And then he reaches out and hauls me upright, his skin cool against mine.
“You’re going to take a shower.”
“Probably a good idea,” I mutter as he leads me to the bathroom and turns on the water.
“Will you be able to stay standing while I clean up?”
“You’ll know if I can’t,” I say and then stumble toward the tub.