Leaning her head against the cool porcelain, Emery wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and reaches up to flush the toilet. She sniffles quietly, too weak to stand.
“You gonna stay in here and puke all day?” Chris laughs, entering through the open doorway.
“Fuck you, you did this to me,” she laughs, closing her mouth quickly after a tiny burp. She holds her breath, praying she won’t be sick again. She sits back, resting against the side of the tub, and reaches for the cool glass of water he hands her. She drinks it down, hating the taste of Boston tap water, the old pipes in the house giving it a metallic taste.
He kneels beside her, wiping her face with a warm washcloth, discarding it in the tub behind them. He pushes her hair back from her face and rests a cooler cloth around her flushed neck. “You’re sure you’re not sick? You seem warm.” Worry and concern fills his voice.
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