Page 51 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
Rose must have moved, seeing as I can move my left arm, so I roll that way, searching for her. The sheets are warm, but she’s not there.
“Rose?”
Huahh.
Either the sound is getting louder or I’m waking up. Prying my eyes open, I see the barest beginning of sunlight making an appearance through the window.
The sound of the toilet flushing starts my brain firing, and I jump out of bed and stumble into the bathroom.
Rose is kneeling in front of the toilet, head lying on her arms, which are crossed and braced over the rim. Her eyes are closed, her brow sweaty.
“Rose?”
“Uh, no.” She doesn’t open her eyes, but she turns her head in the opposite direction. “Go away.”
I drop to my knees beside her. “You sick?”
“No, I’m vomiting out my internal organs for funsies.”
I’m glad her eyes are closed because I don’t think she’d appreciate my smile. “Yeah, sorry. Stupid question.”
She suddenly rises and hunches over the toilet again. I smooth loose strands of hair back from her face while she gags.
“How long have you been in here?”
“Maybe an hour?” She spits but doesn’t throw anything up again. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe you got it all up.”
She lays her head back down, and I stand, grabbing a washcloth from the closet. “Want to try coming back to bed?” I soak the cloth with cold water and wring it out. “I can bring a trash can and set it next to your side. You’ll probably be more comfortable there.” I rub her forehead with the cloth, and she sighs.
“I should go home. I don’t want to get you sick.”
“No way you’re going home like this.” I drag the cold cloth over the back of her neck. “What do you think it is, food poisoning?”
“If it is, and you tell your mother I got sick from her Thanksgiving dinner, I’ll kill you.” She raises her head off her arm and glares at me. “Like legit run you over or something.”
Clad in only neon green lace underwear, hunched over a toilet, shaking and sweating from being sick, Rose still manages to make a mean death threat.
Things are never boring with her around.
“Come on, Rosie-girl. Up we go.” I lift her up by her armpits and brace her weight on me as she gets her feet under her.
“Damn it.” Rose shakes her foot out in front of her. “Pins and needles.” She tries walking, but it’s more a limp-hobble.
We make it to the bed, where I lay her down and tuck her in. “Just lie close to the edge. I’ll be right back with the trash can in case you need it.”
She mumbles something about embarrassment and curses three kinds of pie.
By the time I change the bag on the tall trash can from the kitchen and bring it to her, she’s out like a light. Not snoring like before but breathing deeply. She looks even younger when she isn’t cracking jokes and being a smart-ass.
Her wide brown eyes are closed, her thick lashes resting on her cheeks. Her brows, usually moving with expression, are still and delicately arched. A handful of freckles are scattered across her nose and high cheekbones. And full lips, the color of her namesake, are parted, giving her an innocent look. It almost seems impossible that such a force of nature lives inside this peaceful beauty.
Sometimes with Rose, I get lost in all the showmanship, the glitter, the jokes, the hair, but now, still and peaceful with nothing to distract me, I can see just how stunning she really is.
She glows. Like a star.
Thirteen
