eleven
BRINLEY
The next morning, I wake up to the sound of puking.
I throw off the covers and tiptoe to my door, opening it slightly. Sure enough, it’s coming from the bathroom and the door to Van’s bedroom is wide open. I peek in and see that other than the sheets being a rumpled mess in the middle of the bed, the room is immaculate. There are no clothes on the floor or decorative items or pictures he may have added, just his wallet and keys on the dresser in a small leather organizer.
Another bout of puking draws my attention to the bathroom door. The toilet flushes, and I scurry to my room, slowly shutting the door with a light click as the bathroom door opens.
“f**k me,” Van’s gravelly voice says from the hallway, then his feet hammer on the floor back to the bathroom. The door sl
