Page 26 of This I Promise You
Before I can respond Easton says, “Oh yeah, he’s my boooyfriennnd. We’re just role-playing. Can’tchya tell? Isn’t he hot?” It all comes out in a slur and much deeper than his regular voice.
“You’re his boyfriend?” the random dude asks, his face painted in the same disbelief I feel in my chest.
“Ye-yeah.” I set Easton down and wrap my arm around his waist to support 99 percent of his weight. “What the fuck of it? Got a problem with it?”
“No problem. Just get out. He looks like he’s about to puke.”
“Gone.” And I drag Easton toward my car.
He can’t even walk on his own without tripping down the road and I’m so far beyond annoyed.
“Where do you live, Easton?” I ask.
“Duh. We live together. You’re my boyfriend, rememberrr?” He trips down the road and I grab him tighter to balance him. “And you’re really strong.”
I stop and face him so I can get his attention. “Focus.” I hate drunk people so damn much. “Easton, focus. Where. Do. You. Live?”
“Okay, but, like, could you please be my real boyfriend? Would you please ask me on a date? You’re so hot. The hottest. Like,theeehottest guy I’ve ever seen. Even if you are a prick.” And then he crosses his arms, sticks out his bottom lip, and pouts.
First, I never noticed he hadsucha country accent until tonight. Like, it’sveryapparent in his drunken stupor. Second, this is useless.
We finally make it to my car and I settle him into the back seat so he can lie down while I drive. And the first thing he does is vomit. All. Over. Everything.
“Thanks. You’re a doll,” he says when he’s done puking. He wipes his mouth and falls right the fuck to sleep. He’s so damn adorable all curled up against the seat with his head propped up on the window. If he wasn’t covered in puke I—
No.
Nope.
No, Paul!
Shit.
“I fucking hate you,” I say and slam the door.
Easton
You Called Me
The light stings when I open my eyes. I bring my fingers to my temple and massage the pressure points, trying to ease the thud in my head. And my mouth is so damn dry.
“Ugh,” I groan and maneuver onto my side.
My entire body aches and whines. Why the hell do I do this? Where was I even at?
“Kylie’s party,fratparty,” I tell myself. “Yep. Oh my!”
My eyes jump open despite the sunlight streaming in through the windows. I’m going to throw up. God no. The bathroom’s down the hall. I don’t have time to make it. No. No. No. I jump from the bed and race toward the door, but my feet stop before I get a few steps. I grip my stomach. Woah.
This isn’t my room.
“Where the hell am I?” My eyes widen even more while I will back the junk in my throat. I’m standing next to a short platform bed I’ve never seen in my life. There’s a desk on the opposite wall with a stack of classic books:Wuthering Heights,Little Women, and…Death on the Nileby Agatha Christie. Huh? Damn, there’s a lot of Agatha Christie. Two end tables free from clutter flank the bed. In fact, the whole room is free of clutter, and any color apparently. It’s a lot of black, but mostly white and, like, a sand accent color. The bedding is probably 10,000 thread count or something. This is so much nicer than my dorm room.
Where the hell am I?!
My stomach churns again. I need a toilet or a trash can or a sink. I don’t care which.
There are two doors. Dammit! I make a quick judgment call and I rush toward the door to my left. Relief floods through my body as a toilet comes into view. I rush in and retch into it. I swear I’m never getting drunk again.
