Chapter 98
Jake's POV
I spotted the bathroom immediately and made a beeline for it, peeling off my ruined jacket and hoodie with the care of someone handling biohazard material. Thank God I'd thrown a backup t-shirt in my backpack this morning—one of those random paranoid decisions that occasionally pays off. I changed quickly, stuffing the soiled clothes into a plastic laundry bag I found under the sink, then splashed cold water on my face.
Okay. Crisis one: handled. Now just get her settled and you can leave.
I walked back out to find her swaying near the bed, looking like she might topple over at any second.
I guided her to the bed, medical training kicking in. "You're going to lie on your side—that's important, on your side—so if you get sick again, you won't choke. Got it?"
She made an agreeable sound and immediately flopped backward like a trust fall gone wrong.
I caught her before she could roll off the bed, adjusting her position into the recovery position I'd learned in first aid training. Left side, pillow supporting her back, face angled downward. Reduces aspiration risk, my brain supplied automatically.
"There. Perfect." I stepped back, surveying my work with the satisfaction of someone who'd just completed a complex medical procedure. "Now I'm going to—"
Her hand shot out with the speed and accuracy of a striking snake, fingers closing around my wrist like a handcuff.
"Don't go," she mumbled, eyes still closed. "Feel sick... don't wanna be alone..."
I looked down at her pale face, at the desperate grip on my wrist, at the vulnerability in her slurred words, and felt my carefully constructed exit strategy crumble.
Ten minutes, I negotiated with myself. Just stay ten minutes to make sure she's stable.
"Fine," I sighed. "Ten minutes."
I gently loosened her grip and reached for an extra pillow to prop her up better. My fingers had just touched her shoulder when she suddenly lurched upward, and—
"Oh, come on!"
Round two hit my backup t-shirt with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. This time, I didn't even have the excuse of surprise. I just stood there, arms outstretched in a pose of surrender, as the universe demonstrated exactly what it thought of my life choices.
She made a small, satisfied sound—like she'd just completed an important task—and slumped back down onto the pillow.
I stared at my shirt. Then at the ceiling. Then back at my shirt.
"What did I do?" I asked the empty room. "Seriously. Past life, I must have done something. War criminal? Kicked puppies? Invented autoplay videos with sound?"
The ceiling offered no answers. Just the gentle sound of her snoring, completely oblivious to my suffering.
I looked at her peaceful face, then down at my ruined shirt, then back at her face.
"You," I said slowly, "are the universe's revenge on every good deed I've ever done."
She snored louder, as if in agreement.
Get it together, Jake. I took a deep breath—through my mouth, because my nose had given up.
I peeled off the shirt, holding it at arm's length like it was radioactive, and headed for the bathroom.
Jackson probably thinks I'm dead by now, I thought, turning on the shower. Or arrested. Probably arrested.
The hot water was a small mercy, washing away the physical evidence of my terrible decisions. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, trying to reconcile how a simple Tuesday night had turned into this.
"You're a good person," I told my reflection in the steamy mirror as I washed my shirts in the sink with hotel soap. "Good people help drunk strangers. Good people don't let potentially alcohol-poisoned girls sleep alone. Good people—"
My reflection looked deeply skeptical of this entire argument.
Good people also use their Tuesday nights to get ahead on studying instead of playing babysitter to human vomit fountains, it seemed to say.
"Shut up," I told it.
I hung my wet clothes over the shower rod—because apparently this was my life now—and emerged wearing nothing but a hotel bathrobe that smelled like industrial laundry detergent and poor choices.
She was still asleep, curled on her side exactly where I'd positioned her. I checked her breathing (steady), her pulse at her wrist (strong), and the color of her face (better, less alarming pale).
Professional babysitter mode: activated.
I set up a monitoring station at the desk: water bottle within easy reach, strategically positioned trash can by the bed, folded towel nearby for emergencies. Then I collapsed into the world's most uncomfortable desk chair and pulled out my phone.
Won't be back tonight, I texted the group chat. Everything's fine. Long story.
Ryan's response was immediate: DUDE WHAT
Jackson's was more measured: Be safe. Text if you need anything.
I stared at my Pathology notes on my phone, trying to study, but the words blurred together. The adrenaline crash was hitting hard, leaving behind exhaustion that felt like it had weight.
Every twenty minutes, I forced myself to check on her—breathing, position, color. Each time, she was fine, sleeping peacefully, completely unaware she'd turned my night into a disaster movie.
I opened my Notes app and typed:
First night in a strange woman's hotel room: achieved. Reason: became a human barf target. Twice. My college experience is truly magical. Also, pretty sure I'm failing next week's Pathology exam now. Thanks, universe.
Note to self: reconsider career path. Consider hermit lifestyle. Hermits don't get vomited on.
Despite everything—the ruined clothes, the lost study time, the sheer absurdity—I felt oddly okay. She was safe. That had to count for something.
The chair was torture on my neck, but I couldn't leave yet. Not until I was absolutely sure she'd be okay.
She'd better remember this tomorrow, I thought, closing my eyes. And apologize. With interest. Possibly in the form of tuition reimbursement.
But even as I thought it, I knew I'd do the same thing again.
Because apparently, I was pathologically incapable of walking away when someone needed help.
Even if that help involved becoming a human vomit receptacle.
Twice.
The universe owed me. Big time.