Page 26 of Room for Us
She frowns, lower lip thinning. Thinking. Hesitating. I don’t blame her; I wouldn’t want to deal with me right now, either.
But then her arm snakes under mine and around my back. She tries to lift me—silly woman—and we list against the counter.
“Roger? A little help, please.”
“Yep.” Heavy footsteps approach. “Here we go, bud.”
Together, Ms. Kemper and the bartender guide and shove and drag me out of the bar into the cold air. With some cursing and grunting, they deposit me in the passenger seat of the Jeep.
It’s warm, the car running and heater blowing. I sigh and close my eyes. Curls tickle my nose as she leans over me to fasten my seat belt. No hairspray or perfume. Just a hint of lavender and something herbal, fresh and light.
“You smell—” My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and I can’t finish the sentence.
Good. So good.
She tenses, retreats. Slams the door. The dash clock reads 1:27 a.m. before blurring. My head hits the window with a thud and I hear disembodied voices outside.
“Thanks again. I owe you one.”
“Anything for Barb’s niece. And welcome home, Zo. Glad you’re back.”
“Yeah, me too.”
The driver’s door opens and closes. Through slitted eyes, I watch her put the car in gear and navigate out of the lot, heading for home.
Irritation rolls off her in waves, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to.
“My fault,” I mumble.
I close my eyes and drift.
Roses, roses everywhere…
… all my fault.
I smell bacon.
Daylight. I’m not in a bed. Couch. I’m not wearing shoes. My toes are cold, my legs too long for the blanket atop me. Living room. Soothing sage-green walls, intricately carved white paneling on the ceiling. It occurs to me that I haven’t bothered to admire the craftsmanship of the house. So many unique details, delicate footfalls of the past…
Oh, wait. Those are actual footsteps.
My head tilted back, I blink up at Zoey Kemper.
“Good morning,” she says. Voice mild, emotion contained. Eyes ringed with shadows scan mine. “How do you feel?”
The night before rushes back. Or at least the beginning of it does. The end is a bit like peering down a dark tunnel marked by occasional flashes of light. Shit.
I sit up too fast and clutch my spinning head. “Oh God,” I moan.
“There’s a bowl on the floor right next to you. Please don’t throw up on my sofa.”
I grab the bowl. Dry heave. Swallow hard. Force myself to breathe slowly through my nose. Can this be any more humiliating? Then I see the chair opposite the couch, and realize, Yes, yes, it can. A rumpled blanket under a small pillow. Women’s slippers on the floor. A book, reading glasses, and a mug.
She kept watch over me, because she didn’t want me to throw up in my sleep and drown.
“Here.” A slender hand offers me a glass of water and two white pills. “Take the aspirin. Small sips.”
Her kindness hits like salt in an open wound. “I’ve been hungover before,” I snap. “I can take care of myself.”
