Page 70 of Fragments of You

“Thank you again,” I tell her as she moves toward the door.

“Good luck with that.” She gestures toward Felix, who’s hunched over, head hanging loosely between his legs, a pile of vomit at his feet.

“Yeah, thanks.” I snort out a humorless laugh, turning my attention back to Felix as soon as my sister disappears through the door.

I WAKE WITH A START to the sound of a loud groan, my eyes darting open to find Felix sitting upright on the couch, scrubbing his hands over his face.

I quietly lower my legs from their curled position, every joint protesting as I move. Guess that’s what I get for sleeping in a chair. Then again, it’s not like I had a lot of options. Felix passed out on the couch while I attempted to clean up all the vomit on the floor. And while I was tempted to go to the bedroom after that, a part of me wasn’t sure he’d want me there, and the other part of me wasn’t sure I should leave him in such a state. In all the years I’ve known him, I can’t say I’ve ever seen him so drunk.

So the chair is where I slept. Though I don’t know if you’d call what I did sleeping, considering I’m pretty sure I was only able to get a couple of hours tops and it was restless at best.

“You okay?”

His shoulders tense at the sound of my voice. Moments later, his head lifts, and his bloodshot eyes meet mine.

“You’re here.” He seems equally relieved and surprised by this fact.

“I was waiting for you when Celine brought you home last night,” I tell him, tugging at the sleeves of the sweatshirt I slept in.

“Celine?”

“You called her last night while you were at the bar.”

“I did?” He draws back in confusion.

“She said you thought she was with me.”

“Why did she bring me home?”

“Probably because she didn’t want to risk you driving yourself home.”

“How did I get inside?”

“We carried you. And then you proceeded to puke all over the floor.”

He glances down at the clean floor, making the right assumption as to how it got that way.

“Fuck, Paisley.” Another scrub of his hands down his face. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t realize how badly my uncertainty was hurting you. I let Nash do the one thing I swore I would never let him do... I let him come between us.”

“I hate that he came back.” His bloodshot eyes once again meet mine.

“I know.”

“I hate that you still love him.”

“I know.” I don’t try to deny it. It wouldn’t do me any good even if I did.

“I’ll never be able to compete with what you two share.” There’s a vulnerability to his words that I don’t often see from him.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“You’ll never be able to love me as much as you love him, will you?”

“I love you differently than I love him, not less,” I correct.

“You’re wrong about one thing, though... You aren’t the one who should be sorry; I am.”

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