“I’m in the brownstones on—” Bailey stopped short, putting a hand over her mouth. Turning, she gagged and proceeded to throw up in the row of tall green hedges beside her. I pocketed my phone, debating whether I should try to help her somehow or just stay out of her way. Before I could intervene, she straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“It’s 303 Park Lane,” she finished, staggering slightly. “Near south campus.”

Based on the way she was teetering from side to side like we were on a boat, this wasn’t the last we’d seen of the vomit. I’d bet on it.

“Let’s sit down for a second.” I guided Bailey over to a low wooden bench beneath a set of trees where we’d be partially sheltered from the rain. The instant she sat, she leaned over the side and retched again. Sympathy hit me; I’d been there before, and it sucked.

“Here.” I shifted closer and gathered up her long blond hair, holding it out of the way.

She whimpered something that sounded like “thank you,” but it was hard to tell for sure because it was interrupted by her gagging.

A group of loud, drunken people appeared around the corner. I shifted my body to block Bailey from their line of sight as they drew closer, trying to give her some semblance of privacy. Or at least as much privacy as one could have while vomiting on a public street.

“Are you—” I paused while she dry-heaved. “Are you okay?”

Usually, I was the recipient of that question. Things had gotten dire when I was the chaperone.

“I think so,” Bailey mumbled, pulling herself upright with my help. Once I was convinced she had her bearings, I let her go, and she immediately stumbled.

I wrapped my arm around her waist. “Do you want me to call your brother?”

Her eyes widened. “No. He would freak if he saw me like this. Especially with you.”

Good point.

Bailey fumbled around in her tiny black purse, emerging with a package of tissues and gum. She wiped her face and popped a piece into her mouth without offering me one, which was probably for the best; I had a feeling she was going to throw up again and need it for herself.

As we shuffled down the second street, the rain began to fall in earnest, soaking through our clothes. Her place was a good twenty-minute drive away. She wouldn’t make it that long in a car without emptying the remaining contents of her stomach on the floor. And if we kept up this pace, we would be drenched by the time we got there.

“Come on,” I said, steering her by the arm and changing directions. My place was five minutes away. It was the only option. At least until she stopped throwing up.