Kiss and Cry

“Do you have medication?”

“Just over-the-counter stuff. If I catch it early enough and lie down in a dark room, it’s usually manageable after a few hours. But I forgot to put the Advil in my bag.”

“Mm.”

In the underground parking lot, I shuffled along with my head down as Henry walked beside me. I complained about how damn bright it was everywhere. The elevator was torture, the movement making my empty stomach gurgle with a wave of fresh nausea.

It wasn’t until we were at my door that I realized.

First off that Henry was still with me, and secondly that my keys were in my jacket—which I’d tossed on a bench by the ice that morning. I groaned. “Oh, fuck me. I don’t have my keys. We need to get the concierge.”

Henry looked at his phone. “They’ll be on their lunch break.”

“Fuuuck.” I was ready to curl up in a ball on the ugly beige hall carpet.

Henry’s long fingers grasped my elbow, and he led me back to the elevator. I followed, figuring he’d fix this somehow. The electrical storm in my brain made it hard to focus or think. I just needed darkness and Advil.

Henry didn’t take me down to wait for the concierge, though. He guided me into his condo, telling me to take off my shoes when we got inside. I did, glad my stomach was already empty when I bent to unlace my sneakers.

“Thanks. I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” I mumbled. “Lunch isn’t that long.”

Saying nothing, Henry led me into the main area of the condo. It was a studio like mine, but he had a real bed with a frame and everything across the far wall under the big window.

A leather love seat sat across from a TV on a chest of drawers, and a little round table and chairs were squeezed in by the kitchen. It was all so grown-up.

He turned from the drawers, holding out a plaid bundle. I stared in confusion.

“There’s vomit on your pants,” he said.

“Oh! Fuck. Sorry. Did I get any on your car seat?”

He was still holding out the bundle. Pajamas? I took the soft material, and he disappeared into the bathroom. I guess he wanted me to change into these? It was so hard to think.

I stripped off my practice pants—yep, splashes of puke on one leg—but Henry was already back holding a bottle of Advil and staring at me with wide eyes.

Maybe I wasn’t supposed to get changed? But I couldn’t just stand there in my boxer briefs, so I kept going while he turned sharply toward the kitchen.

The green plaid PJs were super soft flannel with a matching shirt and bottoms because of course Henry wore full sets of pajamas and not a T-shirt and boxers or whatever.

He returned with a glass of water, and I fumbled with the buttons on the PJ top, which was tight over my chest. For a second, I thought he’d offer to help, and excitement flared through the stony pain. Then he motioned me to the bathroom and gave me the water and Advil.

He’d also left out a new toothbrush on the counter still in its packaging. Probably a freebie from the dentist. A half-used tube of toothpaste sat beside it, the end efficiently rolled. Was he secretly my nana in disguise? If Henry had a purse, he’d carry mints.

When I went back out, I stumbled. Henry knelt on his bed, pulling the gray curtains shut and reaching out with his ass on display.

Definitely not my nana. Nope.

Standing beside the double bed, he wordlessly pulled back the duvet, which was a silvery blue that reminded me a bit of his free skate costume. I gratefully slid between the sheets, my whole body aching and exhausted, feeling like the cement had encased all of me.

“This isn’t how I imagined the first time in your bed.”

Oh, Jesus, wait. Had I said that out loud? What was I even talking about? I pried my eyes open, but it was too dark to see if Henry was blushing. I was afraid if I tried to explain the joke that I’d make it worse, so I quit while I was ahead and shut my mouth.

I’d just take a little nap, and then we could get my keys from the concierge, and Henry could have his Saturday back…

I wasn’t sure how long it had been before I blearily blinked. The condo was still dark, a faint red glow coming from the kitchen. Henry sat on the far end of the love seat with his legs curled under, socked feet peeking out.

He’d changed into sweats and a hoodie, and under the soft yellow light of a reading lamp positioned away from me, he wrote with pencil on a clipboard.

Surely the concierge was back from lunch and could open my condo, but the thought of returning to my mattress on the floor and not much else did not appeal even a little.