“What happens if he starts throwing up?” I asked Ainsley when she returned.

“Why do you think we have the bucket?”

“Right, but wouldn’t it be, like, cleaner to take him to the bathroom?”

Ainsley shook her head as she plopped the empty bucket down by the sofa. “No. That’s how you get broken teeth.”

“What?” I was aghast.

“True story. It happened to a guy in my class. He was leaning over the bowl and his head dropped down and—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” I cut in. “Do we have anything we can give him to sleep in?”

“Um … god, this would be easier if we had Dad. How about Sparkly Sweater?” she said, referring to the oversized, cream wool knit sweater covered in glittery golden polka dots I’d worn to death in sophomore year.

“Why can’t he borrow something of yours? You’re taller than me!”

“Yeah but you’re wider, Miss ‘Child-Bearing Hips.’ Sparkly Sweater’s the baggiest thing either of us owns.”

Brougham had shuffled backward to lean heavily against the couch. “Would you like a glass of water?” I asked him. He didn’t seem to hear me. “… I’ll get you a glass.”

Ainsley traipsed into the kitchen with Sparkly Sweater while I was filling the glass. “Do you think he can dress himself right now?” she asked.

I regarded the sweater in horror as blood rushed into my cheeks. “Oh.”

We gave each other a stricken look.

“I’m not doing it,” she said.

“I’m not doing it! He’s my friend.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s exactly why it should be you.”

“Friends who made out a few weeks ago, might I remind you? Besides, you’re older than him, it’ll be like a big sister–little brother situation.”

“We don’t have that kind of relationship!”

Awesome. It seemed like my choices were: a) put Ainsley in an uncomfortable position, b) leave Brougham to marinate in his sweat-alcohol-and-vomit-soaked shirt all night, or c) systematically and platonically assist a friend of mine in changing his shirt.

I was making way too big a deal out of this. Why was I doing that?

Because, a voice whispered, he is not just a friend, and you know it.

Well, tough. Right now, he was just going to have to be.

And, frankly, I wasn’t trying to cross any lines on purpose here: I would have by far preferred Winona to be the one looking after her boyfriend tonight. If she called Brougham’s phone in the next thirty seconds or so, I’d happily pass the job off to her to avoid the sheer awkwardness of it all.

“Okay, fine. Fine. Can you grab some sheets or something for the couch then?”

“On it.”

I knelt in front of Brougham with a glass of water and Sparkly Sweater while Ainsley traipsed off to the linen closet.