He threw up on me.
Chapter sixteen
I’m mopping up his mess with a towel when there’s a knock on my door. I open it with my elbows to keep the vomit from touching my doorknob.
It’s El ie. I nearly drop my towel. “Oh.”
Slutty nurse. I don’t believe it. Tiny white button-up dress, red crosses across the ni**les. Cleavage city.
“Anna, I’m soooo sorry,” St. Clair moans behind me, and she rushes to his side.
“Ohmygod, St. Clair! Are you okay?” Again, her husky voice startles me. As if the nurse getup weren’t enough to make me feel completely juvenile and
inadequate.
“’Course he’s not okay,” Josh grumbles from the bed. “He just puked on Anna.”
Josh is awake?
El ie smacks Josh’s feet, which hang over the edge of my bed. “Get up. Help me move him to his room.”
“I can get up by my bloody self.” St. Clair tries to push himself up, and El ie and I reach out to steady him. She glares at me, and I back up.
“How’d you know he was here?” I ask.
“Meredith cal ed, but I was already on my way. I’d just gotten his message. He cal ed a few hours ago, but I didn’t get it, because I was getting ready for this stupid party.” She gestures at her costume, upset with herself. “I should have been here.” She brushes St. Clair’s hair from his forehead. “It’s okay, babe. I’m here now.”
“El ie?” St. Clair sounds confused, as if he’s just noticed her. “Anna? Why is El en here? She’s not supposed to be here.”
His girlfriend shoots me a hateful look, and I shrug with embarrassment. “He’s real y, really drunk,” I say.
She thwacks Josh again, and he rol s off the bed. “Al right, all right!” Amazingly, he stands and pul s St. Clair off the floor. They balance him between their shoulders. “Get the door,” she says sharply. I open it, and they stagger out.
St. Clair looks back. “Anna. Anna, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ve already cleaned it up. It’s fine, it’s not a big deal.”
“No. About everything else.”
El ie’s head jerks back to me, angry and confused, but I don’t care. He looks so awful. I wish they’d put him down. He could sleep in my bed tonight; I
could stay with Mer. But they’re already maneuvering him into the rickety elevator. They push aside the metal grate and squish inside. St. Clair stares at me sadly as the door shuts.
“She’l be fine!Your mother will be fine!”
I don’t know if he hears me. The elevator creaks upward. I watch it until it disappears.
Sunday, November 1, all Saints’ Day. Oddly enough, this is the actual day that Parisians visit cemeteries. I’m told people are dropping by the graves of
loved ones and leaving flowers and personal tokens.
The thought makes me il . I hope St. Clair doesn’t remember today is a holiday.
When I wake up, I stop by Meredith’s. She’s already been to his room, and either he’s out cold or he’s not accepting visitors. Most likely both. “It’s best to let him sleep,” she says. And I’m sure she’s right, but I can’t help but tune my ear to the floor above.The first movements begin in the late afternoon, but even these are muffled. Slow shuffles and laborious thuds.
He wouldn’t come out for dinner. Josh, who is cross and bleary, says he checked in with him on his way here—a pizza place, where we always eat on
Sunday night—and St. Clair didn’t want company. Josh and Rashmi have patched things up. She looks smug to see him suffering through a hangover.