Page 1 of Puppy Love

one

Black Coffee

Cam

Commode. Loo. Toilet. Whichever term suits your vocabulary, my head is two inches past the rim as coconut-infused bile rises up my throat.

Ugh. Malibu.

A gentle hand rubs circles across my shoulder blades, while another holds my tangled, dirty blonde hair behind my head, away from the acidic geyser currently possessing my body.

“I don’t want to say I told you so, but—”

Blegh.

“I told you so,” Adrian finishes, still rubbing my back as they hand me a cup of water.

I wrap my fingers around the blue plastic cup and tilt my head back to let the smooth, cool water glide down my throat. Disguised as relief, the anticipation in my nauseated body eases. But the water quickly returns, like a letter sent to an address that doesn’t exist, and once again, I find myself up close and personal with The Porcelain Throne.

A loud knock erupts from the bathroom door, ricocheting off the insides of my hungover skull, and an angry voice booms through the barricade.

“Can you hurry up already? I have to take a shit!”

“Sorry, out of order!” Adrian sings back, their tone much kinder than that of the voice outside the bathroom. The hinges of the door slowly chip with each knock against the wood, and my brain practically rattles. I think I’m going to throw up again.

“Can you open the door?!”

I take another sip of water, this time locking my throat closed as I gargle the liquid and allow it to soothe my burning tonsils. I don’t think there has ever been a relief as sweet as this. Adrian lets out a subtle sigh, and I lift my head to watch as their dark, dainty hands twist the gold in the center of the doorknob. Click.

The door opens, and Adrian’s roommate Avery stands bitterly in the frame. Short brown locks shoot out in every direction possible, and his thick brows furrow over his squinting, hooded eyes.

“I really gotta—”

Blugch.

The last contents of my stomach now forever swims in the pool of Adrian and Avery’s latrine. I slide my bare forearm across my face, wiping the sour residue off my mouth. Another exhale slips from Adrian’s lips, and they hang their head.

“Okay, let’s get you some Gatorade,” they say in defeat.

If anyone should feel defeated, it should be the person who just threw up twenty-three dollars’ worth of Zabinski’s Takeout. Adrian’s hand extends to me, and I weakly place my palm against theirs.

“Dude. You’re fu—” Avery starts to speak, but I hear a slight waver in his voice. He swallows instead. “How are you still—” Gulp.

He wants to make some snarky remark about me heaving like a momma bird, but it seems he’s having trouble getting his words out without an astringent taste in his own throat. I look at him, perplexed, then turn to face Adrian for answers. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.

“Avery is emetophobic,” Adrian explains, their shiny, jet-black coils bouncing. “He’s terrified of vomit.”

The corners of my lips tug at the sides, forming a cocky smirk I have no remorse for. Avery Clark is many things, but above all, he is annoying. So, the thought of him being so sensitive to something like puke amuses me.

Avery is less amused. His brows dig further into his eyes, a red tone rising to his squared cheeks.

“Fuck off,” he sneers, before turning into his bedroom and furiously slamming the door closed behind him.

I lock eyes with Adrian, and after a brief moment of silence, we erupt into uncontrollable, gasping-for-air laughter. My ribs start to ache, and my vision goes blurry as tears create a glossy coat over my eyes. Adrian’s arms flex, tightly gripping my pale, shaky hands in theirs as they pull me to my feet.

“Remind me to never drink Malibu again,” I say as I follow them to the living room.

Empty bottles litter the counters and coffee table, and the entire apartment reeks of booze. The smell is so nauseating that I’m grateful there’s nothing left inside of me to projectile vomit. I reach down and move a pair of unconscious legs to the side so I can sit down on the tawny, pilled sectional.

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