Page 61 of A Love That Broke Us
Jeff turns and heads down the hall.
“Oh fuck,” Jensen groans, swaying. “I’m sick. Gonna be sick.”
He bends at the waist and vomits. Hot, sour liquid splashes over my bare feet.
I freeze. My breath catches, and my heart pounds in my ears. The sharp stench hits me first. Then the heat, clinging to my skin.
Move, my brain screams.Move. Do something.But I can’t.
“Fuck.” He drops to his hands and knees.
I should be getting him to the bathroom, grabbing a towel, rubbing his back—anything but standing here.
More retching pulls me from my stupor, and tears sting my eyes as Jensen dry heaves and vomits again, splashing across the floor.
Panic squeezes my chest as memories slam into me—my mom with my dad, helping him while he stumbled around, trying to keep him upright as he puked in the middle of the living room.
“Shit.” Jensen groans, falling to his side, collapsing in the mess, and I can’t tell if the storm tearing through me is fear, anger, or sadness.
I know Jensen isn’t my dad. I know I’m not my mom. I know he doesn’t do this often—if ever.
Dammit. Do something.
The nurse in me kicks in, and suddenly I’m moving—rushing to the bathroom, grabbing towels and wet washcloths. I rinse my feet off in the tub, scrubbing away the stench of bile, before hurrying back to Jensen’s side. I lay the towels over the mess. I’ll deal with that later.
“Hey, babe. Can you sit up?” I ask softly.
He grunts, and I slowly guide him upright, just enough to peel his shirt over his head before he slumps back down, groaning. I nudge him away from the worst of it, then take the rag and wipe his face.
I feel like his goddamn mother.
Fifteen straight minutes of working—soaking towels, scrubbing, rinsing, wiping—fighting the urge to gag as the smell clings to everything. My hands shake, my stomach turns. And all I can think about is my mom and how she used to do this. Not just for us as kids, but for my dad.
Don’t. Don’t go there.
I swallow hard, pushing the thought down as I finally get Jensen to the bathroom. I lay him down gently, resting his head near the toilet, tucking a blanket and pillow beside him like I’m caring for a sick child.
I push my hand through his hair, brushing it down his cheek. “You okay?” I whisper, my voice shaky.
He vaguely nods, and I’m taken right back to the last time I saw my dad, to all the times my mom had to help him to the couch or drag him to the bathroom.
The sharp ache in my chest catches me off guard. I’ve been around plenty of drunk people since moving to New York, but Jensen like this? It’s tearing me apart.
Because this is different.
Ilovehim.
A tear falls and I catch it with my hand, swiping at my eyes. I know Jensen isn’t an alcoholic. I know this isn’t some kind of problem. I’ve seen him drunk before—laughing, playful, a little tipsy. Even full-on drunk. But this? This is something else. This is past drunk.
I lean back against the bathroom vanity, shutting my eyes because I can’t look at him like this. I don’t want to look atanyonelike this. But my dad’s image burns behind my eyelids—unwanted and vivid.
He’s not my dad.
I take a breath, trying to shove down the fear, but it’s shaky, unsteady.
He’s nothing like him.
Still, I stand frozen, eyes closed, cheeks damp from the few tears I let fall.
