Page 89 of The Ring
He crunches his face in disgust. “Don’t remind me of my eighteenth birthday.”
We must have made some noise because Randal came out. He’s the butler stationed here, in charge of managing the house and overseeing the staff. He’s been staying up until we get home every night. I have no proof, but I also have no doubt he’s doing it because Anthony asked him to.
He’s nice, around forty, short—around five-foot-six—with olive skin and black hair, and he’s seen almost all of us throw up at one point or another. As he approaches, I hear noise coming from upstairs, too.
Laurie glances at the stairs leading up with a yearning expression. He knows that’s where the primary and secondarybedrooms are—where Annabelle and I stay. Which means she’s awake.
“Would you mind—” Laurie pauses, hesitant. I know what he wants to say; he just doesn’t want to leave me to deal with TJ alone.
“If you go upstairs and talk to her while I handle him?” I finish his sentence, nodding towards TJ.
He nods.
“It’s fine. I can handle him.”
“So, you’re going to handle me?” TJ mumbles. His voice is heavy with exhaustion, but there’s a teasing edge to it.
Laurie looks like he’s desperately trying not to laugh.
I roll my eyes. “Not like that,” I say, exasperated, before turning to Randal. “Would you mind helping me get him to the closest guest bedroom?”
“It’s not a problem, Miss Monroe,” Randal responds, stepping in to take Laurie’s place beside TJ, supporting him by his arm.
I’ve told him plenty of times to call me Cornelia, but he insists on calling me Miss Monroe. At least he doesn’t use my full last name.
Laurie heads towards the stairs, but before going up, he turns back to me and mouths, “Thank you.”
I smile and mouth back, “Good luck.”
God knows he’ll need it.
Thankfully, there’s a guest bedroom on the ground floor; taking TJ upstairs or downstairs would have been a nightmare—one I definitely don’t want at five in the morning. It’s the smallest guest bedroom, with a tiny window offering the worst view, and the only furniture is a bed, two bedside tables, and a lone chair in the corner. But in TJ’s condition, I doubt he’ll notice or care.
“I can handle it from here,” I tell Randal when we reach the bedroom door.
He nods and leaves me alone with TJ.
I push the door open and guide TJ inside, nudging him towards the bed. He stumbles onto it and then sprawls out, lying there like a starfish.
I resign myself to the fact he’s going to have to sleep in his outside clothes. I get why people do it—it’s convenient in situations like this—but I could never bring myself to do it. Even drunk at six in the morning, I’ve still managed to change into pyjamas. The thought of sleeping in outside clothes is unbearable. Too many germs, too much dirt, and it’s nowhere near as comfortable as clothes designed for sleeping.
I bend down to take his black Oxford sneakers because that’s something I can’t ignore. Shoes in bed are utterly disgusting. You could have stepped in poop, spit, or God knows what else, and then you’re dragging all that onto your bed—a place that should be clean, a sanctuary.
I don’t understand how people who sleep with their shoes on don’t feel the germs crawling on their skin. Beds already have enough germs without adding the ones from the street. I guess most people don’t know that. There’s bliss in ignorance, I suppose. But I know how many germs are in most beds, and mine isn’t one of them.
I get it disinfected with red light and steam every week; the bedding is changed every two to three days; and the mattress is replaced every six months. A little excessive, some might say, but that’s what helps me sleep.
I struggle a little, but I get the first shoe off. Then I turn to the second one.
Why do they make men’s shoes so difficult to take off? Or maybe it’s just that TJ isn’t cooperating.
“Do you love him?” TJ asks abruptly.
I tug off his other shoe, finally freeing it. “Love whom?” I think I know who he’s referring to, but he’s high enough that he could also be asking me if I love the wall—or his shoe I just took off.
TJ sits up, swaying slightly as he looks at me. “Benedict.”
I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to be honest with him. Maybe it’s because it’s just him and me, and for so many years, he could see right through me like I was made of glass. Or maybe it’s because of how late it is—or that he probably won’t remember any of this tomorrow.
