Page 59 of The Fine Line
“You weren’t?”
“No,” he says. Then pauses. “Well?—”
“Well? Were you or weren’t you?”
“After I was sure you wouldn’t drown in your own puke, I wasn’t.”
That’s when I notice the couch—and the pillows and blankets arranged into a makeshift bed.
“I don’t puke,” I say.
It’s true. I never do.
“Yeah, well…” He hesitates. “I just wanted to be sure.”
I pull the comforter tighter. Then a thought hits me.
“But how did you know I was drunk? You left the bar.”
“I left the bar,” he nods. “Not the parking lot.”
My brows rise. “Why?”
“You didn’t want me inside,” he shrugs. “But you were already a sip away from hammered before I walked out. I wasn’t going to leave you there.”
My throat goes dry. “I still have so many questions.”
“Ask them.”
“You didn’t sleep with me?”
“No. I already told you that.”
“Were you watching me sleep?”
“What?” He recoils. “No.”
“Then what’s that?” I point to the nightstand.
He glances, then relaxes. “Um… tea?”
Tea?
“Why?”
“Because you don’t drink coffee.”
My lips press together.
He’s right. I don’t.
“And you’re sure we didn’t do anything more?”
“I promise.” A beat. “Well?—”
“If you say ‘Well’ one more time?—”
He cuts in, hands raised. “Define more.”
