Page 18 of Filthy Little Secret

Shitty shit shits.

8

TIM

Fuck Mark.

Throwing up all over the floor—all over the pile of dirty clothes in my room.

I spent over thirty minutes cleaning it up. He offered to help, almost hit me when he demanded I let him help. I practically had to kick his ass to get him to lay down in bed.

I’ll need to head to the laundromat today to get these clothes clean. Won’t risk putting them into the washer here, that’s for sure.

I enter the bedroom, holding a plate with an omelet and two pieces of toast in one hand. In my other, I pinch the rim of a glass of water between my fingers while holding a couple ibuprofen in my palm.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” I say as I nudge his arm with the plate.

He squints his eyes open. “What time is it?”

“Six. I figured if you had a class at eight fifteen, you’d have time to get to it if I woke you up now.”

“I think I’m gonna skip.” He glances at the plate. “What’s that?”

“It’s an omelet.”

“You fucking cook?”

“Yeah. What of it?”

He sits up and slides across the bed until his back’s against the headboard. He eyes me skeptically as he takes the plate.

“It’s not poisoned or anything.”

“Thanks,” he says.

I hand him the ibuprofen and water. He downs the pills.

“That was some serious drinking last night,” I tell him.

“Yeah.” Mark looks for a place to set down the glass. I take it from him and set it on the nightstand.

He eyes me uneasily once again.

“What? Are you disappointed I’m not the heartless bastard you thought I was?”

“I don’t know how I feel right now, other than nauseous.”

He glances at the plate of food.

“Did you actually make this?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Tim Halwell? Sorry. I mean, thank you.”

“It took me like five minutes.”

“No. I mean, yes. But also, thank you for last night. You didn’t have to help me. Or clean up the glass I broke. Or the…”

---