Bend (10 page)

M
y head feels like a brick, and my eyelids might literally be glued together for how incapable I am of opening them. I can hear the familiar whirring-and-clicking sound of my ceiling fan above me, and my pillow and blankets are definitely my own.

So I’m in my bedroom. Beyond that I have no idea what’s going on.

There’s a dull ache in my left hand, and I’m catching a faint, sour whiff of vomit. Last night’s events flash in my brain like a series of disjointed snapshots. I remember leaving the hospital with Jay, who then took me to the pharmacy. The minute they handed over that little orange bottle, I swallowed one of the horse pills of hydrocodone that Jay’s irrepressibly cheerful third-year-resident colleague Yamada prescribed me, because the local anesthetic he had used had worked so well that I was dreading that numbness wearing off.

Next Jay went through a fast-food drive-thru, and I was so hungry at that point that I scarfed down three soft tacos along with a whole bottle of water in just a couple of minutes while he steered his truck down the streetlamp-lit roads toward my apartment.

After we got there is when things get kind of fuzzy. I vaguely recall feeling like I got hit by a train. Did Jay really carry me up the stairs to my apartment? Or am I confusing a daydream for a real memory? I can still feel him scooping me up into his arms and not once faltering or slowing down as he climbs the steps. I remember resting my head on his shoulder and wanting to press my face against his neck.

If that was just a fantasy, it’s the most vivid one I’ve ever conjured.

I’m not sure what happened after that. Clearly I made it to bed somehow.

I turn over on my side and pry open my eyes, which start stinging as I’m squinting and blinking against the sunlight. There on my nightstand next to a bottle of water sits my small orange, white-lidded pill container. I reach out and grab it.

Then I roll over onto my back and study the label. Looks like the standard dosage of hydrocodone with acetaminophen. Which was apparently still too much for me to handle? I never would’ve expected to have that kind of reaction to it, but I suppose there wouldn’t be a warning about those kinds of side effects if it didn’t happen to
someone.

“You should eat something before you take one of those,” comes a deep baritone next to me.

My heart jumps into my throat, and a yelp escapes me. The bottle drops down onto my comforter as I spin my head toward the voice.

It’s Jay.
In my bed.
He’s lying underneath the blankets wearing a white T-shirt, his head on a pillow, and his hair is sleep-rumpled. While I’m gawking at him, he rubs his eyes with his thumb and index finger.

“What are you doing?” I squeak out. Jay is in my bed. But why? What happened last night? Am I wearing clothes? Yeah, I’ve got underwear and a T-shirt on. The same stuff I wore last night. So only my yoga pants were removed. Did he take them off? Why the fuck can’t I remember?

He throws out his hands, like he’s saying,
Isn’t it obvious?
“Waking up?”

My mind goes blank with confusion. “What are you doing in my bed?”

“You asked me— No, you begged me to stay.”

“I did?” I swallow hard. My mouth feels parched, and I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe Jay spent the night in my bed, and I don’t remember a thing.

“You were high as a kite,” he explains, “and I had to carry you to the bathroom so you could throw up before I carried you to your bed, where you latched on to my arm and were sobbing and begging me not to leave you.”

Oh, God.
A wildfire of embarrassment shoots up my neck and into my cheeks. I kind of remember that, I guess, but it’s a jumbled memory that doesn’t feel quite real. I suppose that explains the smell of vomit, though. Is it in my hair? I think it’s in my hair. I slept all night on my vomit-splattered hair. So gross.

“I’m sorry,” I say weakly. Then I add, “Why didn’t you just sleep on the couch?”

“I thought about it.” He brushes aside the blankets and starts getting out of bed. “But I decided I needed to actually get some sleep.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words die before they reach my vocal cords as I watch him picking his scrub bottoms off the floor and pulling them on. He does it quickly, but I still catch a glimpse of his underwear—black boxer briefs that hug his ass and thighs and take my breath away. I love boxer briefs when they fit the guy well, and they fit Jay perfectly.

He
is perfect. And totally off-limits, for reasons I can’t quite wrap my head around. I’m still kind of lust-stunned as he walks out of the room.

With a grunt, I roll out of bed and go to the bathroom. I’m groggy and acutely in need of a shower. What time is it? I don’t have a clock on my nightstand, so I have no idea. I always use the alarm on my phone.

Wait. What day is it? Thursday? I’m supposed to be at work.
Shit.
I need to call them, but I don’t even know where my phone is.

Back in the bedroom, I find my yoga pants folded and draped over the armchair in the corner. Jay must’ve done that. After he pulled them off of me. And I can’t remember it. Heat curls in my stomach while I awkwardly manage to pull the pants on one-handed.

“Hey, where’s my phone?” I ask Jay as I burst out of the bedroom. He’s in the kitchen, plucking a pair of bowls out of a cabinet, and he answers my question with a nod at a white plastic hospital bag sitting on the breakfast bar.

I go to the counter and am fiddling with the drawstring on the bag when Jay says, “I called your office manager last night and left a message. Told her you wouldn’t be coming in today.”

He did what? I stand there blinking at him while he pulls a cereal box out of my tiny corner pantry. “How did you know who to call?”

Shrugging, he dumps cereal into both of the bowls. “You’ve talked about her, and she’s the only Diane in your contacts.”

Oh, okay. That makes sense. Though I’m not sure how thrilled I am at the idea that he was going through my phone. Guess that’s what I get for not keeping my passcode a secret from him.

But this is Jay. He wouldn’t be snooping…right? I don’t need to worry that he might have checked out my browser history and found search result pages for stuff like “how to seduce your best friend”?

Right?

“Thank you,” I say numbly, watching him get milk from the fridge and pour it on top of the cereal.

“Mhmm,” is his response.

Grandma.
I need to find out how she’s doing, so I pluck my phone out of the hospital bag and fire off a quick text message as Jay grabs a pair of spoons from my utensil drawer and brings both bowls to my round, counter-height kitchen table.

“Sit down,” he commands. “Eat. Then you can take some of that hydrocodone if you need it.”

I shake my head, because I’m pretty sure I don’t want any more of that stuff. Without a word, I plunk down across from him, and then we’re sitting there together, eating breakfast. Munching on cereal and avoiding the other’s eyes.

This is so bizarre. Totally uncharted territory. Is he still angry at me about last weekend? It’s hard to tell. He’s always been difficult to read.

Jay stops chewing long enough to ask, “So did you have any idea the drugs would affect you the way they did last night?”

“No,” I reply after giving it some thought. “I’ve never taken it before.”

“Okay.” He shovels another spoonful in his mouth, chews, and swallows. “You should probably ask for non-narcotic pain medication in the future.”

Well, hopefully that won’t ever be necessary, but I give a nod and keep eating. He just can’t help it, can he? Taking care of people isn’t a choice for him. He just does it.

My phone chimes, and I pick it up and see my grandmother’s response. She says she’s doing fine and is ready to leave the hospital as soon as they’ll let her. Tapping quickly on the screen, I tell her I hope she gets out soon and that I love her.

Jay finishes his cereal first and takes the bowl to the sink to rinse it out. I follow him not long after, and he takes the dish from me, washes it, and puts them both on the drying rack. Staying there by him, I lean against the counter and look down at the floor.

It’s spotless. Not a bloodstain in sight. And now I’m noticing that the casserole dish my lasagna was in is sitting on the drying rack, also clean.

“You cleaned up last night?” Pressure is building behind my eyes. I’m swallowing desperately, willing the lump in my throat away.
Stop it. Why are you crying? Again? Just stop it. Right now.

With his arms braced on the sink, he gazes at me sideways. Silently. His eyes look gray today, gray like clouds darkening before a storm.

“I don’t deserve you,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh, wiping at the corner of my eye.

“Oh, come on,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Well, it’s true. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Thank you is good enough.” He stands up straight, rubbing the back of his neck.

Something bursts inside me, and suddenly I can’t not touch him. Reducing the distance between us in one swift motion, I stand on my toes and throw my arms around his neck. Press myself against him, my cheek against his, which is scratchy with stubble. Because he’s at my apartment. In the morning. After spending the night. And he has no shaving stuff here.

“Thank you,” I whisper near his ear, and I feel him stiffen. He doesn’t hug me back. Why isn’t he hugging me back? Are things that bad between us now? We’ve hugged before. This is BS.

I start to pull away, but then his arms are folding around me, pulling me back. Flush up against him. His body is firm and warm and so much larger than mine. With a hand at the back of my head, he keeps my face close to his neck. I can smell his skin. It doesn’t smell like anything in particular except him. It’s the Jay smell. I want to wrap myself up in it.

He holds me for a long time, it seems, and I feel cold and bereaved when he lets go.

Taking a step back, he looks at me earnestly and says, “We need to talk. About this weekend.”

“Okay.” I’ll agree to pretty much anything he wants right now.

“No, not okay. You don’t get it, Mia.” He leans his hip against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest. “We need to figure it out. Having this thing between us… It’s too much of a distraction.”

I’m biting the inside of my cheek. “I get it. I do. But do we have to discuss it right this minute?”

“Why?” He frowns at me. “What else do you have to do
right this minute?
”

“I really need a shower. I feel so gross.” In fact, I’m not sure why I hugged him. With my vomit-splattered hair. That he could probably smell. Yuck.

Jay shrugs. “All right. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

I hesitate. The next thought hits me, slaps me upside the head. I have to ask him.

Raising my injured hand in front of myself, moving it into his line of vision, I say, “I need help.”

He’s giving me a blank and unblinking look. Yeah, he doesn’t get it. Guess I need to make myself clearer.

“I need your help,” I repeat. “I need you to help me get undressed.”

“A
re you fucking kidding me?” The outburst explodes out of me, and it’s like my brain has been hijacked by a giant, blinking, neon question mark. All other functions are in full shutdown.