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He groans and lifts his head from the toilet seat, leaning back on the tub beside me. “This is why I don’t drink. I just wantedone nightwhere I didn’t think about Jenna.”
My breath hitches. Is he still in love with her?
“I always make the wrong decisions,” he continues as his eyes close and his head rests on the edge of the tub. “Not like you. You always do the right thing.”
The statement takes me by surprise. I do? I slide off the edge of the tub and sit beside him on the floor, leaning back with my knees pulled up. “You don’t make wrong decisions.”
He doesn’t move his head from where it’s resting. “I do. I ruined high school for you. Or rather, I didn’t say anything to Jenna.”
Someone plunged their hand into my throat and is squeezing my trachea, at least that’s what it feels like. My voice comes out small. “High school wasn’t terrible for me.”
His head lolls over to look at me. “But it could’ve been better. I could’ve made it better.”
Words stick in my throat. This is not where I thought the night was going. Hell, this isn’t where I thought myweekwas going. Just this morning I was scuba diving with Dean, and now I’m on the bathroom floor with AdamfreakingMurray, and he’s spilling his guts—literally and metaphorically.
Shrugging, I avoid his gaze. “You didn’t owe me anything.”
I sense rather than see him put his head back on the tub edge. Relief spreads through me now that his intense gaze is off me. “You’re Faye’s best friend, and Jenna was my girlfriend. I should’ve stood up for you, told her to back off with the jealous shit. Should’ve reassured her.”
Maybe it’s the buzz I’m still feeling, or maybe it’s the image of Faye’s “I’m trying really hard to stay strong and not break down” face after a bad incident with Jenna that pops into my head, but something makes me open my mouth and say, “You should’ve stood up for yoursister.”
Adam’s intense eyes find my face again, and I wish I could grab my words and shove them back into my mouth where they belong. He studies me for a few seconds, then looks away. “Faye didn’t need my help. She’s strong, not like you.”
He might as well have slapped me for the hurt that goes through me. What does that mean? Does he think I’m weak?AmI weak? I can squat almost twice my weight, so I know he doesn’t mean physically, and that’s what kills me the most.
“What does that mean?” It comes out as a whisper, almost like I don’t want to know.
His eyes widen like he just realized how that statement sounded. “No, I didn’t mean that, I just meant . . .” His eyes close, and he presses the cold water bottle to his forehead. “This would be easier if the room wasn’t spinning.”
I can jump in and save him from explaining himself, but drunk-Lori tells nice-Lori to stay quiet, because both Loris want to hear what he has to say.
“You’re sweet,” he continues, “dependable. Predictable.
I always know you’ll do the right thing, because, you know, I always know what to expect when it comes to you. You choose the safe option. Faye’s not like that. Faye can take what’s thrown at her and give it back ten times worse. You’re just . . . not like that.”
Sweet. Dependable. Predictable. I don’t think I’ve ever hated those words more in my life. He’s saying I’m simple; not a fire-cracker who lights up the room like Faye. Not someone that people want to know; not someone worth anyone’s time. So not only am I weak, but apparently I’m boring. Does everyone think this? How has no one said something before?
My silence prompts him to keep talking. “It’s not a bad thing. Seriously, Lor, you’re gorgeous and perfect and everyone knows it. I’ve always thought—” He cuts himself off by promptly sitting up and emptying the rest of his stomach contents all over my lap.
“Crap! Seriously, Adam?” Cringing, I jump up, causing the vomit to slide down and thoroughly coat the rest of my legs. “I thought you were done.”
“Yeah,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Me too. Sorry.”
Glancing down at the mess on the floor, both Adam and the vomit, I wonder what sweet, predictable Lori would do.
I sigh. “Let’s get you cleaned up and in bed.”
He answers me by throwing up on my bare feet. Fantastic.
“Wanted to make sure you got the spot you missed?” I ask dryly, but my attempt at humor is lost on him.
“I swear I didn’t aim,” he mumbles, then leans back against the tub with his eyes closed.
“Oh, no,” I tell him, “you arenotfalling asleep before getting in bed because I can’t carry you.”
He mumbles something that sounds like an agreement, and I help him stand up, careful to keep the vomit that’s apparently only on me from touching him. We walk over to the bed where he plops down and tries to take off his shirt.
