After a sloppy shower, we walked out of the bathroom and into Zaira’s bedroom. When I opened her closet, I was surprised to find all of my spare clothes still inside. A few of my t-shirts seemed ruffled – like they’d been pulled out and then thrown back in. I grabbed an underwear from the closet and put it on, and then handed Zaira one of her long Gwenpool hoodies.
She quickly pulled it over her head, and with a sigh, she then got into bed with her back to me and wrapped her blanket around herself.
Halfway through the shower, she’d gone quiet and serious. I had no idea why, but I decided to blame her change of behavior on the meds and the champagne.
Probably even the extra cheese pizza.
Maybe she had finally realized that I was in her house with her, and maybe she didn’t like that. Maybe she didn’t want me there, but was scared or unsure of telling me that.
Whatever the reason, though, I wasn’t going to leave her side until and unless I was sure she was okay.
I followed suit after her and lied behind her, and almost choked on a groan when my neck and shoulders started aching.
I was already sore from the day I’d had, and with the alcohol-and-puke-infused events from a few minutes ago working as the icing on the cake, I couldn’t keep my eyes open the moment I placed my head on the pillow. My body didn’t do well with painkillers, so I couldn’t even pop in a couple of ibuprofens to dull the muscle pain.
I didn’t dare get any closer to Zaira as I got comfortable in her bed, and as I drifted off to sleep, my mind kept counting the water droplets that dripped down her wet hair and onto her coral bedsheet.
Drip-three.
Drip-four.
Drip-five.
Drip-six.
Drip-seven.
Drip…
Drip…
…Drip.
