Her intent was to lead him straight to the spare bedroom, but that thought was derailed by Cal gasping "Where's your –" and Gillian altering course. She propelled him quickly into the bathroom, where he lurched over to the toilet and promptly threw up the considerable contents of his multiple shots. She steadied him with one hand, and held his head with the other, until he finally came to a gasping, sweating halt. Spent, he sank to his knees, then his side, and Gillian was just able to grab a towel from the rack and shove it under his head before the brown hair made contact with the gray tiled floor. Cal groaned and closed his eyes, and Gillian flashed back to other years, other "anniversaries" with him passed out, cheek to tile. She got a wash cloth from the closet and wet it down with cool water. Sitting beside him, she wiped the cloth over Cal's sweaty face and spattered mouth, speaking soothing nonsense to him all the while. Then she sat back and ran a hand over Cal's forehead, smoothing his wet hair back, and said, "Cal, we've got to get you into bed."
Barely rousing, Cal mumbled "Stay 'ere."
"No, Cal. If you were to spend the night on this floor, you would be sore and stiff and cold by morning. Can you try to help me get you to bed?"
No response. Then an arm slowly raised, and Gillian grasped it, and little by little they got him to his feet. Gillian supported most of his weight as they made the turn into the bedroom, and when she deposited him onto the white comforter, he slid over sideways with a sigh. She removed his shoes, then lifted his legs onto the bed. By pulling and tugging, she managed to get his suit coat off, as well as his dress shirt. She left his t-shirt, pants and socks on, and settled the unoccupied half of the comforter over him. He lay on his right side, and for him, the night had ended. She sat for a moment, out of breath, watching him sleep and thinking he looked like a new kind of sandwich: Cal wrap. Then, grabbing pink floral pajama bottoms and matching top, she slowly proceeded back to the bathroom.
She cleaned the toilet, washed her hands and face, and did a quick swipe of the brush around her teeth.
Then she retrieved a yellow plastic pail from her bathroom closet, and, heading back into the bedroom, positioned it by the upper portion of Cal's bedside. Cal was sleeping the sleep of the dead, and she took a minute to press her lips against his left temple, then went around to the other side of the bed. She lifted the blanket and sheet and slipped in, giving herself the excuse that she wanted to be close if he needed her in the night. She slid across the cool bottom sheet, and reached her arm over the comforter, snuggling up to his back. The morning, she knew, would bring a granola mix of hangover, guilt, self-recrimination, walls, gratitude and reassurance. She knew the script by heart.
In a while her heart rate slowed, and she was beginning to feel warm and drowsy. His deep, regular breaths were soothing, and before too long, hers were playing a duet.