Good. He should feel bad about this. Drinking a few beers, vomiting all over my trash can. Really, have some decorum.
“Come on, you’re going to take a shower,” I say, reaching down and helping him up. His skin is clammy and warm, and I wonder if this is more than just alcohol. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is just him being sick.
Now I feel like an asshole.
“Probably a good idea,” Caleb responds as he follows me to the bathroom.
I reach into the shower and turn the water on, trying to ignore the looming man behind me. But it’s hard when he consumes all the air in a room.
I peer behind me and see him leaning against a wall, his eyes shut, his hands holding his stomach.
“Will you be able to stay standing while I clean up?”
Caleb’s eyes blink open. “You’ll know if I can’t.”
He makes a face and then stumbles toward the tub. My hand reaches out again, and I grab on to his wrist, helping him under the water, his boxers still on, before walking away and shutting the door.
My eyes move down to my hands, and I cringe, moving quickly to the kitchen to wash them. When they’re scrubbed pink, I pull on some gloves and get to work cleaning everything up. I empty the trash can, throw his sheets into the wash, and when I realize he doesn’t have another set, I make his bed with some of my own.
And then I sit on my bed, my hands hanging between my legs, my chin on my chest. I’m just waiting for him to return, so I can tuck him in and get some sleep. Then I can wake up tomorrow and pretend this was all a dream.
Suddenly, from the silence in my room, I hear a thud, and my head jerks up.
Fuck, what if he fell? Is he hurt?
I move toward the bathroom door and call out, “You okay in there?”
The water turns off, but I hear another crash.
“Yep, fine,” Caleb calls out, his voice slightly muffled.
He doesn’t sound fine, and he didn’t look fine when I left him in there either. I should have stayed and waited. Should have gotten into that shower with him…
No. Absolutely not.
My hand lands on the knob, and I feel the cool metal under my palm. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.
“Can I come in?”
A moment’s hesitation and then, “Yeah.”
I twist the knob and hold my breath, the scent of his shampoo and soap hitting me like a slap across the face.
The vision of the mess I just had to clean up evaporates completely when I take him in. He’s completely naked except for a tiny towel around his waist. One of mine.
He’s far too large for something like that. It barely contains him.
I inhale slowly and let my gaze flick up his wet skin, pink from the shower, and it settles on his face.
“You still have shampoo in your hair.”
He shrugs, like he can’t be fucked with rinsing it out.
“It’s fine. Doesn’t matter.”
It matters. I just replaced his sheets. Like hell he’s going to put a still-soapy head on my pillowcase.
“Come here,” I murmur and then step forward, reaching out and pulling him toward the sink.