"Maxy, are you feeling alright?" Andrew asked, his hand on his back, the man bent over in the bathroom, his hands on the edge of the toilet seat, his perfect hair unmoving.
"Why do I only throw up in this damn restaurant?" Maxwell complained. Andrew had no idea, but at the same time, he had a good reason for this time. Andrew patted his back, supporting him as Maxwell's body convulsed, throwing up all the orange juice that he'd consumed earlier before they arrived.
It was a good idea that they had shown up early to the dinner. Maxwell had been fine when he had gotten into the car, had even been fine when they had arrived at the dedicated area that Andrew and Maxwell had booked.
