Full Strength

Fifty Three-Logan🏒

        Retching, I puked into the toilet for the third time in ten minutes. Goosebumps riddled my skin as I slowly sat back on the ground, shaking. Raking my fingers through my hair, I assessed my nausea. Finally, my stomach seemed to be settling. 

        Graham knocked, then opened the door. "Ginger ale and tea," he said, setting two mugs down on the counter. "Feeling better?"

        I took the ginger ale. "A bit. I think I won't throw up again."

        "Good. I'll go through a disinfect all the light switches and doorknobs, just in case," he said, reaching under the sink and pulling out a canister of wipes.

        "I can do it," I offered. "It's me who's sick."

         The look he gave me was withering. "No offense, but I don't think you can stand up right now, much less scrub down a house."

         "Well if you give me a minute," I said indignantly, but my smile was betraying me.

         He smiled and shut the door behind him, leaving me in a pitiful lump on the floor. I wasn't sick with the flu or anything, but he was smart to disinfect like I was. After the press release, we'd come home. It had finally caught up to me, just how terrible this situation was. Lillian was hundreds of miles away, I was being hounded by the press, and oh gosh, the press release.

        Graham had tried to convince me that it hadn't gone that badly, but I refused to listen, especially after watching the footage myself. It wasn't that I'd said anything wrong; my words had come out crisp, my speech was written to perfection, and I hadn't answered any questions. Just like we'd planned.

        Except I looked guilty as all get-out.

        I was sweating, I was pale, and I had already acquired stubble across my jaw. Every inch of my skin said that I was lying. That I was just another rich, disgusting athlete using his popularity to slide out of trouble. Yes, I was likeable. Yes, people said that I wouldn't hurt a fly. But none of that mattered. My expression said that I was guilty as sin.

         Truthfully, I did feel guilty. Lillian was stuck in New York, with only one friend in the world. Not to mention she didn't even want to trust Andy, not after what had just happened with Jade. Lillian hadn't even been able to go to San Francisco to see her parents. It didn't seem fair, that she'd had less than a day to escape. 

         "Dude, you're getting that look again. Like you killed someone's baby kitten," Graham said, stepping into the bathroom again. Strangely, this wasn't one of our weirder situations. Hanging out in the bathroom with my best friend was the least weird thing I'd done this week.

         "I feel like I did," I groaned, taking another sip of ginger ale. The nausea had almost completely gone away, except I didn't want to have to come running back. Just a few more minutes on the floor, then.

         "She's okay, Logan," he said firmly. "Andy's with her. And I have no idea who Andy is, but she's one of Lillian's friends."

         "I know she's okay, I just feel terrible that she had to run like this," I said miserably. "She should be at my house still."

         Graham cleared his throat. "Yeah. Are we going to talk about that, by the way?"

         My cheeks burned, but I said, "About what?"

         "About the fact that I found you two naked in your room," he said directly. Part of me hated that he was so good at talking about this stuff.

         "Ah. Yeah. That. Um, yes, we can talk about that," I said, squirming uncomfortably. 

        Leaning against the bathroom door, he said, "I didn't know you guys were that close."

        "That was the first time it happened. Or anything like that happened," I mumbled. It felt like a slap across the face, that the moment we had a little bit of happiness, everything went downhill. 

        Graham suddenly frowned. "Please tell me you guys used protection."

        I nodded, hoping that that was the end of the embarrassing questions. Of course, it was not, because this is Graham we're talking about.

        Folding his arms over his chest, he asked, "And?"

        "And...what?" I wasn't built for these kinds of questions. He'd have to spell it out.

        "And how was it?" he prompted.

        My face burst into flames. "Nice," I mumbled, looking into the toilet again. Somehow, that was the safest view.

        "Nice?"  Graham repeated, looking bewildered. "You finally had sex with someone, and that someone happens to be the love of your life who you're going to court to defend, and all you can say is that it was nice?"

         "What else am I supposed to say?" I grumbled. Nice was a perfectly fine description.

         "I don't know. Maybe something about how you can't wait for next time, or how you think she's really beautiful, or anything that doesn't sound like you're describing a throw pillow crocheted by your grandmother." 

        I rolled my eyes. "Got it. No throw pillows. I will keep that in mind for next time." Even though next time was probably several months away.

        Graham helped me to my feet once he realized that I no longer needed to be stationed in front of the toilet. I crawled into the guest bed, still feeling mildly feverish and the enormous boulder of guilt still churning in my stomach.

        Before he could turn off the light, Graham said, "How about tomorrow, when you're feeling better, you and I go shoot some pucks at the rink?"

        "Yeah. Okay," I said, trying to remind myself that shooting pucks at the rink was something fun. Something to look forward to. 

        "Need anything else?"

        "No. Thank you, Graham. You're the best," I said tiredly.

        He flashed me a quick grin. "Still trying to get my best defenseman back on the team. See you tomorrow."

        He turned off the light and shut the door, leaving me very alone in the bedroom. Rolling over, I looked out the window. I didn't know which was worse: missing Lillian, or knowing that I'd totally screwed up her entire life. 

        Everything reminded me of her. My clothes still smelled like her laundry detergent. There was the mint chocolate chip ice cream in Graham's freezer; her favorite flavor. I'd found a couple strands of her hair stuck to the hood of my sweatshirt.  The way Graham left his coat on whatever chair was closest reminded me of how she hated when I occasionally forgot to hang up my own coat. Dozens of little reminders, all of them mocking me. Laughing at how I'd lost the one person who meant the world to me.

        It was almost midnight. In New York, it was ten. She was probably hanging out with Andy, or maybe eating a late dinner. Maybe she'd gone out for the night, although with the way the press was still ruthlessly hunting her, I doubted that. Maybe she was taking a relaxing bath. Maybe she was reading a book. Maybe she was thinking about me.

        Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I quickly texted her. Goodnight. Miss you buckets. Love you even more than I miss you.

        Her reply came back a few seconds later. Goodnight. I love you, be safe. Wish you were here.

        I don't wish I was there. I wish she was here, or rather, back at my house, safe in her bed with me wrapped around her. Her deathly cold feet would be wrapped in her fuzzy socks, her hair would be braided to one side. She'd yawn and roll over, nuzzling into my chest and using me as a human pillow. She'd sleep, without having to worry about anything. Close her eyes and drift off, a light kiss pressed to her forehead. 

         I missed her, and it only felt like she was getting further and further away with every passing day.