Free How Not To Fall by Emily Foster Page B

notice the time when I looked at my phone.
    â€œHalf eleven, nearly,” he says.
    An unpleasant spike of adrenaline hits me. “I have to be in class in two hours.”
    â€œYou’re going to class?”
    â€œOf course I’m going to class! I’m hungover, not immoral! ” I say. And then I put my hand on my forehead and add, “Ow.”
    â€œWhy don’t you try a shower first, see how that goes, and then decide about class?” He rises from the bed and clears his throat. “Your clothes are on the dresser.”
    â€œOkay,” I say, still not looking at him.
    And he walks out.
    The shower helps a lot. Being clean is rarely a bad idea, but what I learn this morning is that when you’re hungover, being clean can make the difference between wanting to die and being willing to live. It puts me in a stable enough state of mind that I can be curious about Charles’s apartment. His bathroom is a dude’s bathroom, basically. A tiny bit scuzzy, but not so bad, considering. It smells like him, which is nice, and it’s totally mildew-free, which is more than I can say for my own shower.
    I dress in my clothes from last night and shuffle from the bathroom into the living room, where I stand in a daze under my wet hair, regarding the bookshelf. It covers an entire wall, and the wall is not a small one. Charles is sitting on the couch, his ankles crossed on the coffee table. He’s reading.
    â€œAre my glasses anywhere?” I say. “And do you have painkillers of any kind? And can I use your toothbrush?”
    â€œNightstand for the first two, and there are spare heads in the cabinet over the sink,” he says, looking up. “Feeling all right?”
    â€œBetter,” I say, and I shuffle back to the bedroom for my glasses. I pick up the water and take four ibuprofen from the small bottle beside it. I detour to the bathroom and go back to the living room, where I stand in front of the shelves, reading titles and brushing my teeth using a fresh head on Charles’s electric toothbrush. I wander back to the bathroom to spit and rinse. When I come back, I peruse the titles once more until I ask, “Was I . . . I mean, is there more to be embarrassed about than I already know of?” I finally turn and look at him.
    He smiles at me—a different kind of smile, a new kind. Fond. “You were fine. I had been drinking myself, so I couldn’t drive you home. I walked you back here—and yes, whatever you remember doing on Kirkwood, yes, you did those things. On the bright side, it saved me the effort of undressing you before putting you in bed.” He raises his eyebrows at me significantly and adds, “You were hilarious, and I slept in the living room.”
    â€œYou gave me your bed?”
    â€œYes. Coffee?”
    â€œHm?”
    I think he’s addressing me, but he says, “Do you want any coffee? And then I’ll take you home.”
    â€œOh. Yes, please.”
    He goes into the kitchen and returns with two cups. He hands me one and returns to his seat on the couch. I sit too, in the chair opposite him. We sit in silence, him reading, me just waiting for the painkillers to kick in.
    I interrupt him to ask, “Why do hangovers feel so shitty?”
    And he says, “Glutamate and GABA, apart from anything else. Surely, you’ve studied alcohol metabolism in the brain.”
    â€œOh yeah,” I say, remembering. “Fuckin’ GABA.”
    He grins and goes back to his book.
    There’s more silence and then I ask, “Whatcha readin’?”
    He holds his book up without speaking or looking at me.
    Pleasures of the Brain says the cover, and there’s a big picture of a brain. It’s a book about the brain, I conclude.
    â€œIs it good?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCan I read it when you’re done?”
    â€œSure.”
    Another long silence, and then I ask, “How come you’re