Page 116 of The Best Friend Power Play

How did I get here?

Another wave of nausea rolls over me.

Culver's crouched behind me, stroking my back, saying soothing things like, 'It’s okay, just let it out. You’ll feel better soon,' and 'You’re doing great,' and 'Take your time. Once you’re feeling up to it, I'll get you some water and you'll rest.'

Then suddenly I'm in my bed.

My eyelids grow heavy.

Culver's trying to get me out of my costume, but my limbs aren't cooperating, and I can't seem to get them to cooperate.

I fall back onto the mattress, and it's lights out.

21

Culver

I haven't slept well.

Or, at all, really.

Hannah threw up twice when we got back last night. I managed to get her to drink a glass of water and settled for her finger-brushing her teeth, which she insisted was way more effective than using a toothbrush.

I didn't argue.

I simply guided her into her bedroom, and as soon as I helped her out of her costume, she passed out.

I grabbed a bucket and placed it on her side of the bed. But when I lay down beside her, I couldn't fall asleep. I was too worried she'd be sick and need me to hold her hair again, which thankfully, she didn't.

Her light snoring fills the room.

She's lying on her side, facing me, a few strands of hair covering her face. I delicately brush them away.

I'm glad she ticked off the last item on her hot girl summer list, but man, do I feel bad for the world of pain she's in for today.

I get out of bed quietly, crack open the window to let some fresh air in, and head into the kitchen to whip up a hangover breakfast. She's going to need all the grease and carbs I can cook up.

Once I've got everything almost ready—including a full pot of coffee because I'm calling in all the reinforcements—movement catches the corner of my eye.

Hannah's awake, and she's wearing one of my shirts, but I can't enjoy it the way I normally do because she's sagging against the wall like she needs the support to help her stay upright.

I know I teased her last night, saying I'd be asking her how she felt today, but when I ask it now, all joking is gone, replaced by genuine concern. Because it's her first hangover, and I can tell she's not doing that great.

She drags her feet across the floor to the breakfast bar and flops down on a stool, making incoherent noises the whole time.

"Can I get you anything?"

She drops her head into the heel of her palms. "A time machine so I can go back and deliver a message to yesterday's Hannah that having five drinks is not a good idea."

"An aspirin and a glass of water coming right up."

I grab the aspirin from the counter—I came prepared—and pour her a glass of water. "Here. Have this."

"Thank you."

While she's doing that, I plate up a serving of bacon, eggs, sausages, and hash browns.

"I don't think I can eat," she says as I slide it in front of her.

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