“It didn’t go well,” she says, sniffling.
“I gathered that,” I respond, meeting eyes with two of the girls who’d been in line. One gives me a dirty look, the other makes a sympathetic face. “Let’s get out of here.” Wrapping an arm around Natalie’s shoulders, I haul her to her feet. Her first step is wobbly, so I keep my arm firmly around her. It’s no easy task getting Natalie around the tables and to the front door.
“Hey,” a voice shouts out above the noise. It’s the blonde bartender, and she’s waving Natalie’s phone in her hand. Changing directions, I haul Natalie over to the bar.
“No more booze,” Natalie complains weakly.
The bartender laughs and hands me the phone. I thank her and she glances at Natalie, who’s doing a terrible job shifting from one foot to the other. “Good luck,” she says and turns to pour a beer.
With Natalie’s phone safely stored in my pocket, I steer her out of the place. We’re four steps out of the bar when Natalie begins to shiver violently.
“Shit,” I mutter, realizing she doesn’t have a coat. Her dress is something better suited for the summer, with a bunch of complicated straps, and a healthy amount of cleavage.
Slipping off my coat, I drape it over her shoulders. She looks at me gratefully, but her teeth are still chattering. I nod and try not to acknowledge that I’m the one freezing my ass off now. Pulling Natalie to the edge of the sidewalk, I raise a hand into the oncoming lights. After a moment a cab pulls over and I open the door, practically shoving Nat inside. I slide in beside her and give her address to the guy. He nods, but otherwise, he’s silent the entire drive, and so is Natalie. Her head is tipped back against the seat, and I peer over, closing most of the darkened space to try and see if she’s sleeping.
“Don’t even think about putting the moves on me, Mr. Teacher.” Natalie’s voice is surprisingly clear for her level of intoxication. She continues, “I’m not one of your app girls.”
I snort. “Weren’t you an app girl tonight?”
She flashes me a dirty look and looks pointedly out her window. The car pulls to the curb in front of Natalie’s building and I hop out, hurry around the back of the cab, and open her door. I offer my hand, but she ignores it and ends up bumping her head on the top of the doorframe.
“Ouch,” she half yells, half wails.
“Come on.” Pulling her into my side, I help her all the way to the door and to the elevator. She slouches against the wall while I punch in her floor number.
When the elevator door opens, Natalie stumbles past me, tapping the tip of my nose on her way. “You’re a gem, Aidan, you know that?”
I follow her to number 708, then redirect her to where she lives at 716, and take the keys from her. As soon as the door is open Natalie makes a beeline for the bathroom. In seconds I hear the unmistakable heaves and moans of a person retching.
Fuck my life.I’m supposed to be with Allison right now. Hopefully she’ll believe me when I tell her why our date was cut short. I know I could just find another person to spend my free time with, but I actually like Allison. Notlikelike, but her personality is tolerable both in and out of the bedroom.
Lifting my hand, I knock on the bathroom door. It swings open, and Natalie crawls back over to the toilet. She throws up once more and sits against the wall, wiping the back of one hand across her mouth.
Her eyes are wide and round, glassy, but she’s regarding me with such curiosity. A strap from her dress hangs off one shoulder, laying haplessly against her upper arm. Her beauty is unmarred by the mascara smeared below her eyes. Natalie has always been achingly beautiful.
“What?” I ask her, leaning into the room but staying at the threshold. One hand grips the round door handle, the other is on the top of the door jamb.
“Nothing,” she murmurs, but her eyes don’t leave me.
“Say it,” I tell her. I know she won’t say anything, because she’s terrible at following directions, especially when they come from me. But tonight, perhaps because she’s shit faced, she speaks.
“I’m not like your app girls, am I?”
I don’t understand her question, but I hear Natalie’s tone. What I can’t comprehend iswhyNatalie sounds sad. Right now probably isn’t the best time to ask.
Pointing at the multi-colored new addition on the front of her shirt, I say “Some of it missed the toilet.” The longer I look, the more I see just how much of it missed the toilet. It’s on her right forearm and her left leg.
Natalie glances down and scrunches her nose. “Gross,” she mutters and grabs for a handful of toilet paper. She mops up her skin as the sound of the spinning roll of toilet paper slows. When she’s finished, she tosses the toilet paper in the toilet and uses her foot to flush, then scoots back and puts her forehead on her knees in the same way I first found her in the bar.
Leaving my post at the door, I walk past Natalie and sit on the edge of the tub. I reach over and turn the nozzle, then slide the plug into the drain. In my shower, there is only one bottle and it washes me from head to toe. Natalie’s shower is a different story. I pick through bottles of shampoo and conditioner, deep conditioner and body wash, and other things that don’t make sense to me (what the hell is a body bar?) until I find bubble bath.
Natalie doesn’t look up until the bath is half full and the suds are mountainous.
“You used too much soap,” she says, standing. “But it looks amazing.”
If her eye makeup was messed up before, it looks even worse now. Black mascara streaks down her cheeks like some kind of Native American warrior. Has she been crying? I was sitting right there, but the sounds of the running water must’ve covered it.
She must know what she looks like, because without looking in the mirror above the sink Natalie turns on the faucet and begins washing her face. I focus on not overflowing the world’s sudsiest bath, and when I look at her again, she looks more like the Natalie I know.
