Marney in the Middle

Chapter 25: The Next Day

My throat burns like I've swallowed a vat of boiling water. Snot runs down my face, mixing with hot tears that keep slipping past my closed eyelids. Each gag sends tremors of pain through my body.

Oh gods, I'm never drinking again.

"You ok," Malcolm asks, rubbing my back between the shoulder blades.

I let out a ragged sigh and wordlessly shake my head.

He found me getting sick a few minutes ago when he barged into the bathroom. How embarrassing. I'm busy kneeling on their bathroom floor, clutching the toilet bowl (thank the gods it was cleaned recently), while everyone else is just now waking up after an awesome party. Or at least that's what Malcolm claims; according to him, the party proved a lot more intense than anticipated and they probably won't forget it for a long time – if ever.

Perfect. I'm a real arse. Another gag sends spasms down my back. I am one and I look like one. What he must think of me . . . A cold rush shivers through me: what his brother must think of me.

But at least Malcolm isn't being weird or judging me. After he burst in, he just settled onto the linoleum beside me and held my hair back. Like a nice guy. A nice guy tending to a manipulative bitch in girl's clothing.

I groan yet don't disagree with my self-consciousness. I deserve that. And so much more.

"Marney?"

I shake my head. There's no way I want to talk – just breathing burns my esophagus.

Never, ever drinking again.

"Um," I finally mumble into the toilet bowl. Clearing my throat, which feels a lot like rubbing it down with a sand paper that's coated in lava, I reach out a hand. "Towel?"

"Just a sec."

He gets up and circles to my other side, all the while maintaining his grip on my hair. Thank the gods again. Cleaning half-digested chunks and bile from it would be such a pain. There's far too much of it and I honestly just lack the energy necessary.

"Here," he says, pressing a towel into my hand.

"Get it wet," I croak after a second. Scratchy towel on my tear and snot streaked face seems like an uncomfortable idea.

"Sure."

I'm not sure how he manages it since the toilet and sink are at least five feet apart, but he presses the now damp towel into my hand a minute later.

Lifting my face up enough that I can bring the towel to it, I sigh. It's cool. I take a slow breaths and wipe off my nose, cheeks, chin and mouth with slow movements.

What even happened last night?

My memory is like a jigsaw puzzle I've lost most the pieces to. I remember kissing Donny (a flip) and then feeling super guilty about it, but then . . . I think maybe I wanted to tell him it was a mistake. Though I don't think that's how it went down. That portion gets muddled into obscurity when I try to recall, though I definitely remember one thing: I finally saw the flaws in Makeover Marney.

After flushing the toilet, I rest my backside onto my feet and peek at Malcolm above the damp towel. He backs away to give me space.

His face droops slightly, and he looks more than a little tired. Puffy, light purple bags rest beneath his pale ocean blue eyes. His hair is tossled and glistens under the bathroom overhead. I note disheveled looks good on him before I can stop myself.

And this is exactly one of those flaws. Everything could have been so simple had I never been pushed toward Reese. But now I like him and that can't be undone. Not that I'd want to undo it if it could.