Page 22 of Puck Me

“Where are you?” he asks sharply.

“At home.”

“You were discharged?”

“Discharged myself,” I mumble.

I know Noah will have plenty to say about that, but he seems to decide to save it for later. “Stay right where you are. I’m coming to you. I’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t you move, Chester, alright?”

“Right.” As if I can move. If I could, I probably wouldn’t be calling him.

“I’m going to stay on the line with you while I drive, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

The sound of Noah’s voice is a distraction if nothing else.

“What do you need, Chester? Tell me.”

“Distraction,” I gasp as my stomach clenches. I pull the phone away from my ear to puke again. I can hear a car engine on the other side of the line.

“Got it. Well, Finn and I went to the aquarium the other day. Did you know he’s afraid of sharks? And not just being in the water with them. He didn’t even like looking at the display.”

I want to laugh, but I can’t even find it in myself to smile. Noah takes my silence in stride and continues his monologue. “We got ice cream afterward, and you know what he did?”

“Pistachio?” I guess.

“That’s right! Pistachio ice cream again! What kind of maniac does that? I tell you, I’m in love with a psychopath.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“Please, you haven’t even tried it.”

“Yeah, because it’s gross.”

“Exactly.”

I close my eyes, waiting for my distraction to continue. The world spins violently, but I do my best to ignore that.

“Anyway, afterward, we came home and watched movies. He made up for his sacrilege ice cream with some homemade lasagna. I forgave him—barely.”

I can tell that Noah is trying to raise my spirits with humor, and it’s not really working, but at least his attempts are doing a little to distract me from the nightmare of my own mind.

“Alright, I’m outside. I’m coming in.”

Noah has a spare key now and moments later, the door opens.

“Oh, Chester.” He hurries over, kneeling down in front of me. “What happened? You know what? That can wait. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He hauls me to my feet, not so much as wincing as he gets vomit all down his front. I try to help, but my feet aren’t cooperating. I can barely move my arms, much less operate the crutch. Fortunately, Noah is strong enough to drag me to the shower and seat me on the chair he has there for this very purpose.

I flop back into the chair as he starts undressing me. I’m well past the point of being self-conscious with Noah. He washes us both and changes us into new clothes, borrowing some of mine to replace his vomit-splattered ones.

“I’m going to get you into bed, then I’m going to clean up the living room.”

“Mhmm.” I don’t really have the energy for anything more coherent than that.

Noah hauls me to bed and settles me in before vanishing. I can hear the clinking of bottles and liquid pouring. I bet he’s throwing my remaining alcohol down the drain. Probably not a bad idea.

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