Page 80 of Ruthless Dream

“I’m sorry.” I rub my eyes, my elbows digging into the hard tiles. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, my love.” It doesn’t take much for Mom to understand there was no way in hell I was making breakfast today.

“I had to miss class,” I realize at the same time. “Oh, shit, I had a quiz.”

A tear drips onto the floor.

“That wasn’t going to happen either,” Mom says, settling back into a more comfortable position. “Do you think it’s a stomach bug, or did you eat something?”

“All I had was a sandwich yesterday at the student center.” I’d grabbed it and eaten it on the way to the library. “I did think it kind of tasted weird.”

I’d shoveled it down, though, because I needed to fuel my body. I didn’t have time to ponder whether the chicken was okay or not.

“Damn it,” I moan, flopping to the floor again. All of this because of one shitty chicken sandwich.

“Have you been here the whole night?” Mom asks.

I nod.

“And. . . Ciaran. Did he try to help you?”

I peer up at her. It’s the first time I’ve heard her say his name. “Of course. I told him to get the fuck out.”

He did bring me more towels and left a Gatorade right outside the door. I made sure he’d left before cracking it open and snatching it. I’m well aware I’m dehydrated, but I’ve only taken a few sips of the liquid.

“It’s so embarrassing,” I whisper into my hands, which hold up my head. I’m sure from this angle, the giant T-shirt cannot hide my panty-less state, but she birthed me, so she’s going to have to get over it.

Mom chuckles. “Life is full of shit, Ads. If he can’t handle food poisoning, then he’ll never be able to handle anything.”

“That does not mean he has to smell it, though,” I mutter.

That only makes Mom laugh harder. As it is, I’m sure she’s a champ, sitting here with me.

“What do you want to do?” she asks. “Do you think you can move?”

My stomach is still in painful knots, but the urge to puke has slowly abated. “I think I can move, but. . .”

The bathroom is a wreck. I tried to keep it clean, and it’s not like I puked anywhere but the toilet, but it still feels like I’ve disgraced it.

Mom opens the cabinet under the sink. There’s a sparse amount of cleaning supplies, but it’ll work. The exhaust fan has been on all night, but hopefully the smell of Clorox will help too.

I lean against the sink, brushing my teeth, trying to rinse the acidic taste from my mouth.

Mom opens the bathroom door, softly shutting the bedroom door before I creep out.

“Is there a drawer here of your things?” Mom asks.

It’s a serious question softened by the circumstances we find ourselves in.

“In the closet.” It’s a small, shallow thing, but I’ve placed a bag of things I dragged over here, trying to keep the small bedroom clutter-free.

“Anything else?” Mom asks, looking around.

I can’t help but see the room from her perspective. It’s tiny, but tidy. Ciaran couldn’t live any other way. The sheets have been thrown back on the bed because I’d basically ripped them off in my pursuit of the bathroom.

It’s bare bones, though. There’s only one nightstand, on Ciaran’s side of the bed. The rug is worn, and it lacks natural sunlight. The overhead light is a gross yellowish, but she doesn’t realize the lamp in the corner is much better to use.

It hits us both at the same time that this is the place where I've been living the past few weeks. Ciaran and I sleep in this bed every night, next to one another.