“From the picnic?” I ask.
“The picnic . . . and then the carousel ride,” she moans. “The horses kept going up and down. I’ve been sick for hours.”
“Oh, baby,” I say sympathetically. “Is he still with you?”
“Are you kidding?” She laughs, which quickly turns into a moan. “No. I left him in the park and puked the entire way home. Thank god for trashcans. And purses.”
“I’m coming over,” I say, grabbing my jacket and heading for the door.
“Jake, I’m fine!” She protests. “There’s no need to—”
But I’ve already hung up.
When I get to her place, the door is cracked open a bit, so I walk right in.
“Lizzie?” I call.
“In here.” I hear a weak voice call out from the bathroom, and when I push the door open, she’s lying on the bathroom floor in a blue robe. She’s curled into the fetal position, her face the color of the white tile below her.
“Don’t look at me,” she says weakly. “I have vomit on my face.”
I kneel down and push the hair back from her face. “So, how was your date?” I ask. “Couldn’t stomach him?”
She laughs, holding her stomach with both hands. “Don’t,” she gasps, “it hurts too much.”
“Can you get up?” I ask, then cut to the chase and lift her into my arms. I can tell she’s sick because she doesn’t even protest as I carry her over to her couch and set her gently down.
“What are you doing?” she asks, as I rifle through her drawers.
I find a pair of purple PJs and pull them out of a drawer triumphantly, waving them like a flag. “Do you need help getting these on?”
“I can do it,” she says, moving slowly and standing up and wavering for a second like the ground is about to tilt at any moment.
“Just hold onto my arm and I’ll close my eyes,” I say, putting a hand over my heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“Now I’m supposed to believe that you were actually a Boy Scout back in the day?” She laughs and almost falls over. I reach to steady her.
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” I close my eyes and listen to the rustling of clothes as she takes off her bathrobe and puts the pajamas on—trying not to picture her naked right now.
Or look.
I swear, I don’t look for long.
“Okay, I’m decent.”
I open my eyes. “Are those . . . Barney pajamas?” I ask.
“They were a gift! From Della.” Lizzie sinks onto the couch and lies back with a groan. I fetch her a glass of water and some Saltine crackers, then place a wastebasket with in easy reach. The TV is on, paused on the title credits for Bring Me the Stars.
“Big night planned, huh?”
“Don’t let me keep you.” Lizzie pouts, and I feel bad for teasing her when she clearly feels like death.
“Let’s watch it,” I say, reaching for the remote. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the whole thing from start to finish.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she groans, shoving her face into the pillow. “It’s only the greatest movie of all time.”
“Well, I guess that settles it then.” I hit play and the credits roll onscreen. I settle back onto the couch beside her, and Lizzie shifts so her legs are resting in my lap. “Tell me if you need to go vomit again.”
“God, no, I don’t think I have anything left,” Lizzie says, and takes a careful sip of water.
The film begins, Marlena’s plucky, impish face lighting up the screen. It’s one of those classic romances, with star-crossed lovers and men in great suits, and I’m surprised to get caught up in the action.
I look over at Lizzie. She’s fast asleep, snoring slightly with these muffled little noises.
Damn, she’s cute when she’s not biting my head off.
Hell, she’s even hotter when she is.
I sigh and turn the movie off. I gently lift her in my arms, her head nestling into my shoulder, and carry her over to the bed, setting her carefully on the mattress. She’s got some ugly quilted throw thing that I tuck around her, and she makes another noise as I smooth down her hair, a smile spreading across her face.
“Horseradish,” she whispers, out like a light. “For the barn dance.”
I have no idea what she’s dreaming, but I suddenly wish it was about me. Fuck, I wish I could slip under the covers with her and spend all night with her spooned tightly against me, listening to the sound of her sleep.
I am so screwed.
I turn out the light and quietly let myself out. The door’s on a latch, and I hear it click behind me.
She’s in there, and I’m out here. It feels wrong somehow, but there’s nothing I can do tonight.
I walk home alone.
28
Lizzie
When I wake up, for one blissful moment I don’t remember anything about last night. Then it all comes flooding back. The picnic. The carousel. The vomiting.
And Jake Weston seeing me crumpled on the bathroom floor in my ratty old robe with regurgitated crab dip all over me.
I groan and hide my face in the pillow. My hair stinks, and my mouth tastes absolutely disgusting. What must he think of me now?
That I have seriously bad taste in dates? He already thought that, anyway.
I force myself to sit up, and take a sip of water from the glass he left on my nightstand. I have to admit, it was really sweet of him to come take care of me, especially when I was such a puking wreck. He was kind . . . and patient . . . and sweet . . .
Oh, no. I stop myself dead. You know who Jake is: a rat, remember? A super rat!
Except rats don’t carry you to the couch, and feed you Saltines, and sit up with you through an old movie before tucking you into bed. And they sure don’t leave you with your embarrassing Barney’s pajamas intact and untouched.
Anyone would think he was a . . . nice person?
My phone rings, and I pick up to find his soothing voice on the other end of the line.
“So, you’re alive then?”
“Barely.” I flop back down in the pillows. “Thanks for coming over last night. I know I was a bit of a mess, but—”
He laughs. “Don’t worry. The Exorcist is one of my favorite movies.”
“Ugh,” I moan. “Was it that bad?”
“Not at all,” he says with a laugh, clearly trying to make me feel better. “I’ve definitely seen worse.”
“Really? Where?”
“College, for one. And remind me to tell you about the time I got food poisoning on a plane from Shanghai back to the U.S. You haven’t lived ’til you’ve curled yourself into the fetal position at 30,000 feet, I’m telling you.”
“God,” I laugh, “that sounds horrible.”
“It was,” he says. “So don’t feel bad about last night. By the way, what are you doing today? If you’re fully recovered I thought you might want to do something fun. No picnics—I promise.”