I knock once and let myself in.
Unlike my bedroom, Lo’s walls and shelves are covered with personality. Penn paraphernalia fits in nooks and crannies, like a red and blue clock and a Quakers bobble head. Photographs of us hang almost everywhere. Mostly for appearance sake. On the dresser sits a framed portrait of Lo kissing my cheek. It looks forced to me, and little things like this make my belly flop, reminding me of our biggest lie.
My sisters believe I store my clothes in the guest bedroom closet for more space. In truth, I like staying in thatminimalistic room. No photographs. Just brightly colored Leonid Afremov paintings of Paris. Though, sometimes they make me dizzy.
Lo lies fully clothed on his champagne-colored duvet. He’s curled up on his side, and his light brown hair sticks in different directions. In his right hand, he cuddles an empty bottle of Macallan, a ten thousand-dollar whiskey.
Five more liquor bottles scatter the ground. Some half-full, others dry. But those have to be from other nights entirely. He has a high tolerance, butnotthathigh. All of these bottles would knock out a whole football team and probably kill him. I try not to think about that.
I go to the bathroom and wet a hand cloth with warm water. Back in his room, I sidle to his low bed, the mattress coming up to my legs. I bend over and press the towel to his forehead.
“Lo, time to get up,” I say softly. He doesn’t stir. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to wake Lo up for something important.
I abandon him passed out on the bed and race around his room, sweeping empty bottles and locking away full ones. When all the alcohol disappears, I turn my attention back on him. “Loren Hale!” I yell.
Nothing.
I try shaking his arms, his legs, his waist—anything that will make him rise to join the living.
Nothing.
He stays gone to the world and inside I’m cursing him for choosing this day to be so wasted. Time slips by, and my pulse heightens with every second. I can’t leave him. Lo wouldn’t do that to me, and if we go down, we go down together.
I unzip my dress and step out. In nothing but a pair of boy-short panties and a plain bra. At least I know what to do in these situations from his past experiences. Hopefully it will work.
With the little upper body strength I possess, I grab under his armpits and tug him off his bed. We both clamber to the floor, and he lets out a soft groan.
“Lo?!”
He sinks back into unconsciousness, and I quickly spring to my feet and drag his heavy body towards the bathroom. “You. So. Owe. Me,” I say with each jerk. The words aren’t true. We’ve both banked enough favors that we no longer even count.
I kick open the glass door to the shower and pull him in with one last heave. His head lies in my lap, and even though I wear beige undies, I’m not too embarrassed. How can I be when he lies vulnerable in my arms? He may not even remember this in an hour. Better my underwear soaking than my dress.
I stay on my knees, panting as I reach up for the faucet nozzle. I turn the water to the coldest cold.
It sprays down on the both of us, and within ten seconds, Lo sputters awake, spitting out water from his mouth like I’m drowning him. I turn the water to a warmer temperature, and he tries to right himself, lifting his torso off my lap. He slips when he attempts to simply lean on the tiled wall.
His eyes close and open sluggishly. He still hasn’t spoken a word.
“You have to bathe,” I tell him from my corner of the shower. “You stink like booze.”
He makes an incoherent mumbling noise, tightening his eyes shut. We don’t have time for this. I stand, grab the shampoo and soap, and return to his side while the water rains down on us.
“Come on,” I breathe softly, remembering how he hates when I speak in my “normal” voice on bad mornings. Apparently it sounds like knives slaughtering baby pandas. His words, not mine.
He lets me pull his T-shirt over his head and barely helps me maneuver his arms through the holes. Water beads on theridges of his abs, a runner’s build that usually stays hidden beneath clothes. No one would expect how fit he is. Or that he does occasionally hit the gym. That’s the best kind—the surprise of somethingmoreunderneath something already handsome. I envy all the girls who get to experience that feeling for the first time with him. I shake my head.Focus.I train my gazeoffthe curves of his biceps and concentrate on his jeans. Without another thought, I unbutton them and yank down.
When the heavy, sopping denim sticks at his thighs, his eyelids flutter open. I blush uncontrollably even though this isn’t the first time I’ve undressed him.
He peers down at me. “Lil…” he mumbles, sounding lethargic.
Okay, we do not have time forthis.I yank. Hard. And they finally surpass his damn muscular thighs and to his ankles where the denim is much easier to manage. Now soaked in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, I have to use all of my strength on the task at hand.
I take the soap and lather them into a loofa and wash across his lean torso, down his abs…umm…skipping that area…and to his thighs and legs. I don’t have much time to wash his back, but I don’t think it will be a problem.
The worst part is the smell. A bourbon scent emits from his pores, and after trying different soaps and colognes, we found some that work to mask the repugnant odor.
His addiction scares me sometimes. Alcoholism can destroy livers and kidneys, and one day, he may not wake up from a night of bingeing. But how can I tell him to stop? How can I judge him when I am nowhere near ready to let go of my crutch? So for right now, this is the best I can do.
