The Rom-Commers(74)

But Charlie didn’t move. “You always say people falling on each other isn’t romantic—but then it always is.”

His bloody face. His puffy eye. The scrapes on his cheek. The smell of liquor and other people’s cigarettes. “Nothing about this is romantic,” I said.

But I wasn’t sure if I was telling the truth.

“That’s debatable,” Charlie said, tripping a little over the syllables.

I shifted into action, strapping my arm around his rib cage to haul him toward the kitchen, but as soon as I did, he started coughing deep, heavy coughs—and I wondered if he’d broken a rib.

I made him work on drinking a bottle of water while I pressed all around on his torso to see if anything felt broken or tender. “I’m fine,” Charlie kept saying. “Nothing’s broken.”

Next, I went through like a whole roll of paper towels to clean the blood off his face. He watched me the whole time.

“Sorry that this is gross,” he said.

“I’m wondering if we should take you to the hospital.”

“Over my dead body,” Charlie said.

“That’s the whole question,” I said.

“I hate hospitals,” Charlie said.

“That’s not relevant,” I said.

“It looks worse than it is.”

So I googled “How to know when to take someone to the hospital after a bar fight” and discovered that many of the symptoms for a worrying head injury are the same as just being stupidly drunk.

“I’m not going, anyway,” Charlie said. “This is gratuitous googling.”

“I’ll decide if you’re going,” I said, busting out my in-charge voice.

“I’ll do that thing where protestors lie down on the road—and then you’ll have to drag my two-hundred-pound ass the whole way.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Yeah, good luck.”

I’d dragged my dad many places for many reasons. “I’m stronger than I look.”

“Actually,” Charlie said, his voice softening, “I believe that.”



* * *



BY THE TIME I was done cleaning up his face, Charlie looked a lot better. He had a cut on his swollen eye where the other guy’s fist had popped the skin. I leaned in close to peer at it. “You should get stitches for this.”

“Nope.”

“It might leave a scar.”

“There are no words for how much I don’t care.”

I sighed. And then I just kind of gave up. Yes, I’d helped my dad many times—but my dad had wanted me to help him. It was one thing to drag an incapacitated man to the hospital. It was quite another to drag an unwilling one.

“Drink,” I urged, filling Charlie’s water glass.

To my relief, he did—big, sloppy gulps that sloshed out and ran down his neck.

I found some Neosporin and a Band-Aid. Then, while I took my time applying both, I asked, “What was that phone call, Charlie?”

When Charlie didn’t respond, I prompted: “Earlier today? The phone call?”

Charlie shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

“You can, though. You really can.”

But he shook his head again. “That’s need-to-know info.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll ruin your life.”

“It’ll ruin my life?” Just how drunk was this guy?

“Or maybe it’s my life it’ll ruin. But you won’t be too pleased about it, either.”

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.