Page 123 of The Rom-Commers

Once the Band-Aid was on, I shoved myself up under his armpit like a crutch, then half walked, half dragged him toward his bedroom.

At his bed, he collapsed backward across the comforter.

“Do you want to put on pajamas?” I asked.

Charlie kept his eyes closed and shook his head.

His feet were still flat on the floor, so I knelt down to untie his shoes and take them off.

When I finished, Charlie was sitting up—and looking down at me.

“I think,” he said, surprisingly lucid for a moment, “that you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.”

“Oh,” I said, looking back down. “That’s very nice of you.”

“And I’ve met”—and here, less lucid, he made a big, drunk gesture—“everybody. In the world. And you’re my favorite. Out of all seven billion.”

What did words like that mean coming from a person in this state?

I had no idea.

“How crazy is that?” Charlie asked, leaning closer to study my face, like he might find the answer there. “I’ve known you six weeks, and I already can’t imagine my life without you.”

“Six weeks can be a long time,” I said.

“Not quite six weeks,” Charlie corrected then. “Thirty-seven days.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know.”

“You’re weirdly good at counting, for a writer.”

But Charlie didn’t respond. He just let his gaze travel from my eyes to my chin to my cheekbones to my mouth and back again, taking in the sight of me like he might never see it again.

For a second, I wondered if he might kiss me.

But then, instead, he clutched me to him in a tight hug.

And before he let go, he whispered, “What am I going to do, Emma? You’re going to hate me so much tomorrow.”

Twenty-Four

CHARLIE WAS RIGHT.

By the end of the next day, I really would hate him.

But I didn’t believe that at the start.

At the start, I couldn’t even imagine not liking him. In forty-eight hours he’d kissed me madly like I’d never been kissed before, and bought me peonies, and then gazed at me longingly in a drunken state. Other than the whole mystery phone call—followed by the storming out and the bar fight—all signs were good.

All signs about me, anyway.

So when Charlie finally emerged from his room the next day around noon, I had already resolved to talk to him.

I’d expected to find him looking rough. There was no way he wouldn’t have a brutal hangover. But he showed up at the dining table shaved, showered, and as neat and tidy as writers ever get. Looking quite dashing, in fact—aside from that shiner on his right eye and the little Band-Aid trying to cover the cut. Even his split lip managed to look rosy. How could he look so good today—after yesterday?

I walked closer and intercepted him at his chair before he could sit down.

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