Page 16 of About to Fall

“Time to go,” I said.

“Nicky!” He said it like he'd forgotten I was there and was freshly delighted to be reminded. “Where'd you go?”

“I've been here the entire time.”

“You should've danced.”

“I was making sure nobody slipped you guys a roofie.”

“Sounds boring.” He slung an arm around my shoulders and leaned into me with enough of his weight that I staggered slightly. He smelled like whisky and sweat and that sweet herbal vape he was always sneaking out to smoke. “You're always so boring, Nicky.”

“And you're going to have a hangover tomorrow that makes you reconsider your life choices. C'mon, Zhao, we're leaving.”

I dropped Sabrina and Leah off first because Sabrina lived closest—a walk-up in the Annex. Sabrina blew a kiss at us from the doorstep before hauling Leah inside with the practised ease of a woman who had managed drunker friends in higher heels. I watched from my parking spot to make sure they got in.

Beside me, Adrian had slumped against the window.

“Don't fall asleep.” I reached over to shake his shoulder. “Where do you live?”

“Hmm?”

“Zhao, focus. Your address. Where am I dropping you off?”

He patted his pockets, eventually pulling out his phone. It was dead. He stared at the black screen for a moment as though expecting it to magically turn back on.

“Cam's place,” he said. Cam? His roommate? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? The last possibility lodged somewhere unpleasant behind my ribs.

“And where is Cam's place?”

A pause. A long one. “Toronto.”

“Yes, I gathered that. What's the address?”

“It's the one with the...” He made a vague gesture. “The building. With the thing.”

“Zhao.” He didn’t respond. “Adrian, I need an address.” I kept my voice patient because one of us had to be. “Give me your wallet.”

He struggled and fumbled a bit and pulled out a card holder from his back pocket, slapping it into my waiting palm. His license still had his Vancouver address. Fuck.

“I just know how to get there from the rink.” He was too drunk to be embarrassed. “Not from here.”

I looked at him—slumped against the window, pink hair in his eyes, shirt riding up, pearl necklace askew—and made a decision I was absolutely going to regret.

I took him back to my apartment.

◆◆◆

Getting Adrian up three flights of stairs was an athletic event in itself.

His legs worked independently of each other and his centre of gravity shifted without warning. Twice I had to pin him against the wall with my shoulder to keep him from tipping backward down the stairwell. He found this hilarious. I found it exhausting. His arm was draped over my shoulders and his weight was warm against my side and I was acutely, painfully aware of every point of contact between us—his hip against mine, his fingers curled loosely in the fabric of my sweater, the heat of his breath near my ear when he turned his head.

I unlocked my apartment and guided him inside and deposited him on the couch. He immediately started wrestling with his leather jacket—tugging at one sleeve, then the other, twisting in a way that hiked the crop top halfway up his torso and exposed a dangerous amount of tattooed skin and taut stomach. I stood there with my hands at my sides, debating if I should help him.

He got it off eventually. Tossed it on the floor. Looked up at me like he'd just conquered Everest.

“Stay,” I said.

“Woof.”