Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
IF I THOUGHT THE DAYS of our cold-war silence were bad, what follows our kiss can only be described as a complete and utter retreat.
There are no weapons pointed at each other this time, no passive-aggressive sticky notes or short emails.
Mortification has driven me into my room like it’s a disaster bunker, and Jamie has done the same.
I spend my nights tossing and turning, haunted by the knowledge of what his mouth tastes like, the sounds he makes, the feel of his teeth on my skin. I try throwing myself into the APM, running sprints and practice modules, but everything I do is riddled with mistakes. He’s all I can think about.
By the time the weekend is over, my sleep schedule is completely destroyed, and when I fall into bed Sunday afternoon for a nap, I don’t wake again until my room is the kind of dark that tells me it’s late late.
I sit up, untangling my legs from my sheets.
I’m both stiff and sweaty as I drag myself out of bed, and my heart is racing from whatever woke me—a sound? A nightmare?
I grab my water bottle and take a few big gulps, then venture out to the kitchen. I flip on the light over the stove and get out a box of mac ’n’ cheese and a saucepan, because now that I’m awake, I’m starving.
“What are you doing?”
I whirl, squinting in the dark. Felicity stands on the other side of the sink, framed by the serving hatch. She’s in pajamas, and in the dim light, I can see the night’s makeup smudged on her face.
I hold up the box of mac ’n’ cheese.
“Dinner?” she asks.
I nod.
“That tracks. You were passed the fuck out when we got home,” she says. “And when we left, and then when we came home again. Mikey thought you were dead.” She yawns, leaning her elbows on the counter. “She did go in your room to check that you were breathing. Sorry.”
“I’m honored to be worried over.” I retrieve a big spoon from the drawer. “Want some?”
“Yes, please. I think I’m already hungover.”
“What’d you do tonight?”
She yawns and shrugs. “Party. Artsy kids Mikey knows. Spent, like, two hours talking about the benefits of microdosing and another hour debating the whole mental-health-versus-art thing. Would we rather artists not suffer, when their suffering gives us art, or do we value the way we feel about their art over their well-being? You know, the age-old Van Gogh debate. He’s all everyone kept talking about, but I was thinking of that one artist with the infinity rooms.”
“Yayoi Kusama.” I showed her to Mikey and Felicity one night after studio, when they were asking me about my art. I thought Mikey would like her pumpkins, but Felicity ended up becoming fascinated by her story, looking through her work long after Mikey had lost interest.
“She’s suffered her whole life,” Felicity says now, “and people go to her installations on their cute first dates. Like, it’s kind of sick if you think about it.
But I don’t know—I guess if I became an artistic genius during my depressive episodes, I’d at least hope someone got some joy out of whatever I made.
” She gives a short laugh. “Except sometimes I can barely get out of bed or into the shower, so no chance of that. But maybe that’s what I get for drinking with my meds. ”
I lean a hip against the counter. “Does it make you feel sick?”
“My hangovers are killer. I will be barfing mac ’n’ cheese in the morning, but don’t worry, I’m going to really enjoy it going down first.”
I dump the pasta into the boiling water and give it a stir. “I don’t think it’s worth the trade-off. Art for mental health. I could live without Starry Night if it meant Van Gogh got to have a more peaceful life. But I hope the outlet brings them some kind of peace, if we can’t make the trade.”
Felicity makes a thoughtful noise and starts to respond, but then she pauses at a sound behind her.
We both turn as Jamie comes out of his room, a mug in one hand.
He stops when he sees us, his mouth tightening into a line when his gaze lands on me but softening slightly as he shifts his attention to Felicity.
“And what are you doing awake?” she asks playfully.
He wordlessly holds up the mug, but when he reaches the kitchen, he says, “You didn’t want to turn on a light?” He flicks the switch, flooding the kitchen in bright white. Felicity and I both cry out in horror. I drop the spoon to cover my eyes, and it clatters to the floor.
“Jesus, you’re like a couple of vampires,” he says.
“Don’t worry, it’s not the sun. You won’t turn to dust.” He retrieves the spoon and tosses it into the sink, and when he turns, the space in our tiny galley kitchen has shrunk to inches, maybe less.
I’m distinctly aware of his presence, and I can see every detail of him starkly in the glare of the overhead fluorescents.
Hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes.
I might be more distracted by the column of his neck, a place my mouth now knows, or the long open sides of his shirt, a spot my hands have learned, if he didn’t look so… terrible. Sleepless, pale. I notice the string from a tea bag hanging from his mug.
He dumps it into the trash and moves to the cabinet, taking down the box of peppermint tea.
“I didn’t know you drank tea.”
He moves to the sink, filling Mikey’s temperamental secondhand electric kettle with water. “Well, that’s not surprising,” he replies. “According to you, I’m a complete mystery to everyone.”
It hits hard like a physical blow. I turn toward the stove, my face burning.
Felicity whistles. “Did you two fight again?”
“No,” we both answer.
I feel his attention flick to me as I study the churning noodles in the pot. He fiddles with the kettle until it clicks on.
“What are you making?” he asks quietly.
“Mac ’n’ cheese. For two,” I say pointedly, still stung.
He holds up his hands in surrender.
“So what’s with the tea?” I ask. “Isn’t peppermint caffeine-free?”
He doesn’t answer, taking the kettle from the base when it begins to boil. He pours it into his mug, adding a new tea bag.
“You don’t look good,” I try again.
He pauses. “Thanks, Blair.”
“I mean, are you sick?”
“I’m fine.”
“You could send me something to work on,” I say, following him to the kitchen doorway. “If you don’t feel well. I can work on Cram Session for you.”
He shoots a glance over his shoulder. “I’m good. Thanks.”
I clench my jaw—the dismissal is a clear rejection. I open my mouth to argue, but I’m interrupted by a snore, and we both turn to stare at Felicity, who’s fallen asleep at the table.
Jamie presses his lips together, this time suppressing a smile. It carves out the line in his cheek, his not-quite-dimple.
I want to wipe it off his face. Smack it hard enough that it disappears. I definitely, definitely do not want to dip my tongue in it.
“Don’t bother making her a bowl,” he says. “I’ll take her to bed.”
He moves to the table, setting his tea aside. “Hey,” he whispers, putting a hand on Felicity’s back. “Liss? Why don’t we go to your room?”
She sits up with a whine. “Jamie?” Her voice wobbles, thick and wet.
“Yeah.”
She sniffles, holding her arms out. “I’m not okay.”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, stooping to pull her up.
She holds on to him, her face pressed into his shoulder as she begins to cry. My stomach twists.
“Shh.” Jamie rubs her back as he walks her toward her room, moving slowly so that her feet can keep pace. He catches my eye as he passes, his expression soft for Felicity but hard for me, like he can will me to look away.
Felicity turns her head on his shoulder and spots me. Her makeup has smeared further, leaving tracks behind on Jamie’s shirt. She wipes her nose on his shoulder and sniffles again. “Bee.”
“Hey,” I say, taking a tentative step toward them.
“Did you make me mac ’n’ cheese?”
“Yeah. I’ll save it for you, okay?”
“Label it,” she insists. “Andres eats anything that isn’t labeled.”
“I will.”
She buries her face in Jamie’s shoulder with a whine. “I’m sorry you had to see me like this.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.
” I step forward before I can stop myself, putting a hand on her arm.
Jamie pauses, the two of them looking my way.
I find Felicity’s hand where it’s clutching the back of his neck, slipping my fingers into hers.
“The only thing I care about is that you feel better in the morning.”
Felicity shoots me a watery smile. “I won’t. I’ll be throwing up all day.”
I squeeze her hand. “Then I’ll have Pedialyte and soup ready for you. You helped take care of me. I’ll take care of you.”
She squeezes my hand back and then goes limp in Jamie’s arms. He grunts as he catches her, then swings her up bridal style. I push open her bedroom door. Inside, Mikey stirs as the light hits her.
Jamie collides with a houseplant and swears.
“What’s going on?” Mikey says, sitting up.
Felicity lets out a small sob.
“Oh. Oh, it’s okay. Come here, baby.”
Jamie manages to navigate through the maze of plants and sets Felicity on the bed. In the shaft of light from the kitchen, I see her roll to the middle, and Mikey catches her in her arms, the two of them curling together as Felicity begins to cry again.
Jamie hesitates.
“I’m awake,” Mikey whispers. “You can go.”
Jamie nods, backing out of the room. He glances my way as he shuts the door, his expression tight.
“There’s enough for three,” I say, motioning to the stove.
“I’m good,” he says, picking up his tea.
“Will she be okay?”
The line of his shoulders soften, his voice quiet as he says, “Yeah. She’s okay.”
I hesitate, noting his drawn expression once more. “Are… are you okay? You’re not really getting sick, are you?”
His expression shutters. “Don’t worry about me,” he says over his shoulder as he retreats to his room.
His door clicks shut behind him, and my gut twists.
Because the problem is, I do. I worry about him. His words from the other night ring through me, an echo of my own thoughts.
I think about you all the time.