Chapter 20
Colin
I grab Olive Garden by the sleeve of her jacket and pull her along as the others run out of the old greenhouse, laughing hysterically.
This would be my chance to chill here for a while and serve myself up to the teachers on a silver platter, but what am I doing?
Getting Olive Garden out of the line of fire before they find her in her current state.
“What the hell?” Her tongue is heavy with alcohol.
“Shut up,” I warn her, pulling her through the door and shoving her behind one of the bushes near the greenhouse.
“You’re such a pain, d’you know th—?”
I press the palm of my hand over her mouth as I hear voices nearby.
Olive actually shuts up. Her face against my palm is warm, and my heart beats faster. I hurriedly take my hand away and stash it safely in my pocket. To stop it getting stupid ideas. Like touching Olive’s face, for instance. But why would I want that?
I glance around the corner and see the beam of a flashlight a way off, moving across the greenhouse, which is now dark and deserted. My chance to show up and let the head finally throw me out of her school. But I don’t move.
I don’t know why I don’t run. Instead, I glance back over my shoulder. Back to Olive, who’s got down on her hands and knees and is no longer looking at me. Her breath is labored.
“Seriously?” I mutter. “Need to barf?”
She just makes a grim sound, then drops her head.
“I give up,” I murmur to myself, running through my options.
Abandoning Olive Garden the way she deserves and handing myself in to the night watch.
They’d be sure to scoop Olive up too, and she’d be in big trouble.
What the hell made her think it was a good idea to get this wasted?
Was it some kind of pathetic power game that she actually thought she could win?
I’m sorry, truly, but she really ought to have known that her tiny body can’t hold as much booze as mine.
God, she’s so dumb. And my stomach clenches as she starts to retch.
Fuck, Olive Garden . . . I totally don’t need this. I know what it feels like when the gall burns in your throat and for a moment you think you can’t breathe.
When I hear a muffled sob mixed with her gagging, I find myself automatically kneeling beside her.
Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand’s on her back.
And then I’m holding her hair while she spews into the bushes.
“Hey, it’s OK, everything’s OK.” What am I saying?
I don’t want her to think I’m pitying her.
But she probably can’t even hear my words.
Her slim body shakes, the trembling shoulders rise and fall.
Shit, she really can’t hold her drink. How embarrassing for her. But unfortunately for me, I care more than I’d like.
My jaw is tense, and my eyes are fixed on her white face. When it seems to be over, Olive Garden sinks to her knees. I pull her hard to one side before she falls into her own vomit.
“Breathe,” I order as she wipes her mouth with her sleeve.
“No, really?” she retorts, her voice weak. That she’s as impossible as ever is kind of reassuring.
“Shut up and sit down.” I press her down onto the grass and look around in all directions. The light is inside the old greenhouse now. Good luck with that—they’re not going to find anyone in there. “Count yourself lucky you barfed so quietly.”
“Get tae fuck, Fantino.” She groans, burying her face in her hands.
“Have you got the grace to be embarrassed?”
“What for?”
“I had to hold your hair while you threw up.”
She’s still resting her face on her hands. “Nobody asked you to.”
I weigh how risky it would be to go back to the greenhouse to look for water and decide on very.
Besides, there’s a greater probability of finding a water bottle in her room.
And I can put my plan to get caught into action later.
Or some other time. Right now, the important thing is to get her safely to her bed.
“Can you stand up?”
She groans quietly.
“Pull yourself together.”
“I’m dizzy . . .”
Goddamn it. I hate caring that she feels bad. “Don’t be so dramatic. Or else I’ll have to carry you.”
She raises her head and blinks up at me. “Was that a threat?”
“Depends,” I say grimly.
“Give me two more minutes . . .” She falls silent as we hear voices nearby.
“Come on.” I grab her hand and pull her up. I don’t like the way she sways, but I don’t want us to get caught now. She’d be in real trouble, especially after the recent incident in the pool. And she’s wasted. Yep, big trouble all right.
Throwing up seems to have helped, but I still can’t believe how slow she is as we cross the lawn. We have to stop several times because she feels sick, but she doesn’t barf again. I breathe a sigh of relief as we get to the east wing without any further incidents.
“What the hell?” she asks, way too loudly as I open the door to her corridor.
What does she think? “I’m walking you to your room,” I say calmly.
She props herself against the wooden doorframe. “I don’t need to be walked to my room.”
So I let go of the door and it swings back, making her stumble a couple steps backward. I jam my foot in the doorway again and grab Olive Garden by the arm. “No, course you don’t,” I mutter. “Give me your key.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re gonna make a hell of a noise trying to find the keyhole in your state.”
“Oh, and you’re in such great condition, right, got you.”
“You’re impossible,” I mumble. “Shut the fuck up, would you?”
“Shut the fuck up,” she imitates me, laughing as I glare warningly at her. God, that’s a beautiful sound. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh before. So . . . lighthearted. I wish she’d do it more often, but if it takes alcohol to get her there, I’ll do without.
It takes her half a lifetime to hand over her key. I realize I have no idea which room is hers. After all, I’m not the one who keeps turning up, mad as a hornet, to make a scene. That’s her specialty.
She points to a door, and this time she doesn’t complain when I unlock it. That she’s suddenly gone so quiet unsettles me, so I hurry to get the door open. “You’ve got a room to yourself?” I ask in amazement as I glance inside.
“Aye, great, huh?” she says with an ironic undertone, walking past me.
“What’s the matter now?”
“I just don’t want any more bogging special treatment.
” Her voice sounds sluggish, and she has to lean against the wall.
I don’t like that, so rather than turning and getting out of there, I shut the door behind me.
God knows why. I’ve delivered her back to her room.
The rest of it is not my problem. In fact, none of this is my problem, so why does it feel like it is?
It’s fucking me up that I can’t just beat it and get some sleep. Not when she’s suddenly looking so sad.
So I say, “Special treatment sucks,” watching as she pulls off her shoes and drops her jacket to the floor in slow motion. Among all the other clothes and stuff lying there. It makes me smile. She’s total chaos, and I love it.
“You know how that feels, don’t you?” she says dryly.
I reach for her as she stumbles over something. “God, just get to bed before you break every bone in your body.”
She pauses, and all at once, our faces are incredibly close.
But I don’t want to. I don’t kiss drunk girls.
Besides, she’s just thrown up. But Olive Garden makes it so fucking hard.
Her green cat-eyes are huge, and her lips are slightly parted.
She closes her mouth and gulps, without taking her eyes off me.
And then she gives me the death blow. “Can you stay?”
Fuck it, Olive Garden, just fuck it. So now we’ve sunk to this level. I can see the fear of being alone in her eyes and I know she’s been through shit that runs deep. I just know it.
I don’t need the details to understand that it can feel overwhelming. So I just nod, even though I know I shouldn’t. I want to guide her to her bed, but she won’t let me.
“I need to brush my teeth.” She groans.
I laugh quietly. “Not a bad idea.”
“Hate you,” she murmurs, then walks past me into the bathroom. I follow because I’m scared she’ll trip over something and hurt herself. “You can too,” she says, digging in the drawer under her vanity and actually coming up with another toothbrush.
“Is that the one you usually clean between the shower tiles with?” I ask.
“No, the toilet.” She’s way funnier when she’s drunk.
I laugh and make her sit down on the lid.
Then I take her toothbrush from her to put toothpaste on it before handing it back.
After that, I stand there, leaning against the sink, finding the silence unbearably loud as we brush our teeth.
Olive doesn’t seem fazed. After a while, she’s apparently stared at me long enough because she carries on brushing her teeth with her eyes shut.
After an eternity, she’s finished, and I can steer her to her bed. Conveniently, she’s wearing leggings and a cozy sweater, so I don’t have to face the embarrassment of asking her if she wants to undress. She looks too spent for that.
I look around as she curls up under the covers. Desk, chair, dresser, and wardrobe. Her room is as Spartan as mine, so I’ll have to make friends with the floorboards.
“What are you doing?” she asks as I kick aside some of her clothes.
“Making up my bed,” I say sarcastically.
“Don’t be an idiot.” She sniffs. “You don’t really want to sleep on the floor?”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do, though.” She scootches over a bit and turns her back to me. When I don’t move, she glances over her shoulder. “Need a special invitation?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t generally get into bed with women unless they’ve expressly asked me to.”
“Oh, how proper of you,” she murmurs as I don’t budge from the spot.
“It’s impossible to do anything right for you, isn’t it?”
“No.” I can hear in her voice how tired she is. “You can’t get anything right for me. There’s a difference.”
“At least you’re honest when you’re drunk.”