“N-no,” he shook his head, pushing her away with his left arm. “Leave, please.” His right hand gripped the edge of the toilet and he spit, the acidic taste bringing on another wretch.

She didn’t leave, and instead began hastily rifling through his drawers. “Did you take anything today? Where’s your ondansetron?”

“Lauren, get out of here,” he ground out, mortified beyond measure as he vomited again.

“I know I sent in prochlorperazine, where is it?” Her pitch was rising, like she was getting panicked.

He began to sweat, and his stomach cramped again, and the desperation in his chest boiled over. He wanted her gone, far away from him when he was like this. When he was weak and sick and disgusting. He tried one last time, thinking of nothing but isolating himself. “Lauren, get the fuck out!”

He couldn’t see her reaction because his head was once again over the toilet, but he heard the door close. When he could breathe, he looked up and found himself alone in the bathroom. He closed his eyes and hung his head, rocking back on his haunches. He yanked the bath towel from where it hung on the wall and wiped his mouth.

When he was sure his stomach had nothing else to throw up, he pushed himself backward and leaned his back against the bathtub. He covered his face with trembling hands and waited until his heartbeat returned to a normal rhythm and his breathing evened out.

After several minutes he flushed the toilet and stood. He refused to look at himself in the mirror as he covered his toothbrush generously with toothpaste, knowing he might never leave the bathroom if he saw his reflection. He scrubbed his mouth thoroughly and rinsed, and then did it again.

When he opened the door and took in the woman before him, his heart shattered into a million pieces. Lauren was curled against the wall across from the bathroom door, her knees pulled to her chest, her head bent forward. One hand was clasped around the back of her neck, gripping so hard her knuckles were white, and the other covered her eyes.

She was crying.

Andrew’s own vision blurred as he lowered himself to the floor. He sat beside her for a moment without speaking, the echo of her halted breathing the only sound in the hallway.

He swallowed, the crisp taste of spearmint flooding his senses. His shoulders felt heavy as he put his arm around her. He half expected her to pull away, but she didn’t. She didn’t respond at all.

He pulled her closer to him, side by side, their ribs, hips, and thighs pressed together. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in a broken voice.

She hiccupped and curled into him, burying her face in his shirt.