Page 8 of The Switched-Up Playbook
He comes to with a slight start and a shake of his head that doesn’t even faze his perfectly styled hair.
“Hm? Oh, no, no worries. Nicko said he’d come along.”
“Sure he will,” I snort. Nate should know that his brother is sure to kill any party mood. It stings that my best friend isn’t trying harder to convince me to go. It’s the only child in me acting up, while the responsible adult knows that Idohave to study to keep my grades up. There will be another party. There’s always another party.
“Hewill,” Nate insists, raising a stern brow.
I relent quickly, not wanting to anger him. “Okay, okay, have a great brotherly bonding time,” I say, raising my hands, “and I’ll be at the next one, promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that!” Nate grins and claps a hand on my shoulder. I can see the tension in the corner of his eyes; I don’t comment, but merely squeeze his arm for a moment in return before he heads out for the night.
***
My work keeps me up past midnight. I’m stuck wracking my brain about what other sponsors we might be able to contact for a Rainbow Run before the weather gets too cold when the door opens and Nate comes trudging in. He mutters a couple of words, then falls straight onto his bed.
I finish up and take a detour to the kitchen while brushing my teeth to put a glass of cold water on his nightstand as well as some aspirin.
As expected, he needs it the next day. It takes me almost half an hour to lure him out of bed and into the gym for our morning session. Still sweaty, we treat ourselves to bagels on our way back.
After quick showers, we settle at Nate’s desk, chewing and eating. I have the New York Times open on my phone, reading the headlines and some of the shorter articles out to Nate, enjoying that it’s turning into a normal weekend morning after all.
“So how was the party?” I ask, after I’ve finished with the Sports section.
Nate picks some sesame seeds off of his bagel, considering them closely before flicking them into the trash can.
“It was okay,” he heaves a breath, staring at his bagel instead of taking another bite. “Nicko canceled on me.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.” A part of me wants to apologize for arguing before they left. I’m sure it didn’t help, but in the end, it’s Van der Hoff’s own decision to let down his brother.
“Yeah…said he wasn’t feeling well,” Nate continues, brows creasing.
I bite my tongue and then my bagel. I hate that he feels bad, but I can’t say that he should tell his idiot brother to stop being an asshole, because Nate would never do that. He loves his twin too much. Instead, I inelegantly switch the topic: “Hey, how about a movie marathon? Or that show you were raving about?”
“You still haven’t watched it? You’re gonna love it, it haseverything!”
I smile when Nate starts talking about the characters, plots and themes of his new favorite show. Next month it’ll be a new one, but I’ll look forward to him showing me that as well.
I finish my bagel, and Nate wraps his half-eaten one up, before we both settle on his bed.
“So, okay, it’s a bit slow to get started, but Ipromiseby episode five it’s impossible to stop!” He finishes setting up his laptop, perched on the edge of his desk, then slumps down next to me.
I chuckle and pull my hood over my still wet hair.
It’s definitely good, but I find myself sinking against Nate’s shoulder when there’s yet another murder plot—some kind of triple betrayal that Nate swears was masterfully foreshadowed—and before it’s resolved I’m asleep.
Pained groaning wakes me. Disoriented, I blink around, but the room is dark apart from the flickering light of Nate’s laptop. The show is still playing, but there’s no one getting murdered, so it can’t have been that. I’m about to dismiss it when Nate groans again.
He rummages with the blanket, throwing it off, then nearly faceplants as he stumbles over my legs in his rush to make it off the bed. His hurried steps noisily cross the room.
Light from the hallway falls in through the open door—and then I hear him retch.
Rubbing my eyes, I push myself up and stumble out of our room after Nate. I follow the sounds into the bathroom.
“You alright, man?”
There’s a groan like an entire horde of zombies and then a weak “go away” that’s way less intimidating, because it’s followed by more gagging and splashing that makes my own stomach turn. Still, I go inside.
“Late Revenge of the Cocktails, huh?” I mutter, crouching down to rub over Nate’s back. He leans his head against the tiled wall next to the toilet.
