Chapter 14
Fourteen
ISABEL
How long is a high supposed to last? I take a couple more hits before we all part for bed. I can’t lie: it does feel nice. I feel calmer, and my noisy brain is still and quiet for once. It doesn’t matter that no one said anything after I played the piano; what was I expecting anyway? Applause?
I like being high. Just a little. Everything feels... blurred around the edges. There’s a voice in the back of my head wriggling with guilt, but I push it down. God and pleasure aren’t mutually exclusive.
Jaime stops me when I stand. Confused, I watch everyone file into the house. Kieran’s already disappeared into his studio. It’s just me and Jaime now.
“Come to my room,” he whispers. “Bo’s a heavy sleeper. He won’t hear a thing.”
What? “No,” I answer.
He leans in even closer. “Come on, Shug—”
I laugh nervously and dodge him. “I’m tired,” I say. I don’t want to. But it feels safer to make an excuse than to give him the truth.
“I’ll do all the work,” Jaime insists.
Another nervous laugh. “Not tonight.” Thankfully, he releases me.
“I’ll hold you to that.” His thumb grazes my cheek, then he’s off.
I slump back onto the couch, head swirling.
My limbs are leaden. I think I took too much.
I can’t keep my eyes open. I’m on a wave, bobbing up and down.
I have no control; my conscience is fading, and fear grips me at the thought.
I force my eyes open. The lights are off.
I don’t know how long I’ve been there. Tears spring forth from my eyes. I’m dying. Oh my God, I’m dying.
“Isabel?”
I turn toward the sound of the voice. The cushion sinks next to me, and I feel warm hands pull me upright.
“Are you alright?”
Kieran. I’ve only heard him speak a few times, but that voice is unmistakable.
“I’m dying,” I croak out.
He laughs. “You’re not dying.”
“Don’t laugh,” I say. “I’m fading away.” Still with my eyes closed, staring into a black void, the endless abyss that threatens to engulf me.
Those same warm hands find my cheeks. “Open your eyes,” he murmurs. “Look at me. Look at me, Isabel.”
It takes so much effort to do so. It’s as if anchors hang from my eyelids. “I’m fading,” I say again, my voice breaking as tears start to fall. My breaths come in short and ragged. It’s a full-blown panic attack.
His thumbs are quick to swipe at my tears. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “You’re gonna be okay. Just ride it out. Ride the wave.”
I clench my eyes shut. Fasten my focus to his voice.
“Breathe with me,” he says. In, out. In, out. “Good. Good girl. You’re doing so well. You’re okay. Ride it. Let go. It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”
I surrender to the feeling. I breathe in, breathe out. Slowly, I come back to myself. When my eyes open, Kieran is watching me, brows furrowed in concern. I sniffle.
“Better?” he asks, smiling.
“This is so embarrassing,” I say. He releases me, and the ghost of his touch lingers on my skin.
“It happens,” he says. “Your first time can be scary. Do you want some water?”
I nod. He helps me up, keeps a guiding arm around me as I stumble along to the kitchen where he pours us glasses of cold water from the fridge. I take a generous gulp. It cools my throat, a sweet relief.
“How did you know I was still out there?” I ask.
“I didn’t,” he says. “I was going to get a snack, then I saw you passed out and groaning on the couch.”
“I was groaning?” That’s even more embarrassing than I thought. Imagine if Natalia saw me? She would’ve filmed it for sure. Called me a baby and showed it to the others. Worse yet—what if Jaime found me? Would he have crossed that line? I shudder at the thought.
“Not so much,” Kieran says. “Just a little.”
This is the longest conversation we’ve had since we met. I press my lips together.
“Do you smoke a lot?” I ask.
He quirks a brow. “Define a lot.”
“Like, daily.”
He purses his lips and shakes his head. “No, no. Not like them. That’s a lot.”
I bet. They were taking drags out of that joint like it was the last few droplets of soda in a fast-food cup.
“They were talking about pills earlier,” I say. “The girls. Do you—? Also—?”
“No.”
“And they don’t bother you about it?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Thinking. He’s backlit against the soft glow of the strip lights under the kitchen cabinets, a mere shadow holding a glass of water.
“No,” he says again. A pause, and then—“I won’t let them bother you about it. They can get out of hand sometimes.”
That makes me snort. “Sometimes.”
He grins. I hate that it warms me from the inside out. “A lot of the time.”
“Define a lot,” I say, crossing my arms.
That gorgeous grin turns into the most subtle of smirks. “Often. Most times. Like, daily.”
Goosebumps prickle my skin. What the hell is this feeling? And why won’t my stomach stop swooping?
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He leans back against the counter. “For what?”
“Helping me through that.” In a moment of vulnerability, I add, “I feel like the others would’ve just made fun of me.”
He sighs. “They can be assholes. But it’s never really personal. They just don’t take things seriously.”
“I guess,” I mumble. I know once I’m sober, I’ll have plenty to write about on peer pressure, but then and there my brain stays blank. “Still. Thank you.”
“Any time.”
“I don’t think I’m ever doing that again.”
Silence stretches between us, taut enough to snap at any second. It’s Kieran who cuts through it with his razor-sharp tongue.
“You should get some rest.”
My stomach sinks. My body burns with the abrupt dismissal.
“Okay,” I say.
“Do you need help getting upstairs?”
“I’m good, thanks. Good luck on your, um, work.”
He lifts his glass at me in cheers. “Night, Isabel.”
“Good night. And don’t cheer with water; it’s bad luck.”
As I turn to leave, he calls out to me. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“High sleep is the best.” He grins. “Enjoy it.”
I chuckle. That softens the blow of his rejection, at least.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”