Chapter Twenty-Three
140 days until graduation
It’s been a long day, full of college tours and a dinner with many college counselors.
It’s dark outside, and we have gotten back to the hotel when Jameson and I have our first interaction of the day.
He steps on the elevator quietly, barely sparing me a glance as I head in the same direction. I move to step in behind him, but he quickly presses the button to our floor before I make it in. The doors start to close.
“Jameson,” I say in a threatening tone. He must know I’m tired from that walk; I want to get back to the room just as badly as he does.
Why can”t he subside for once and let me on the damn elevator?
A grin crosses his face, and his hand reaches out to point toward the sign that reads ‘STAIRS.’ Then, he says, “Race me.”
The elevator door shuts.
“Fucking Christ.”
I think about waiting for another elevator. Then, I think about his challenge, and I can’t deny the way my heart races at the possibility of beating Jameson.
I look toward the stairs again, and this time I run toward them.
I feel like I’m floating up the stairs.
Growing up in a rather large house with three flights of steep stairs means I have grown confident in my ability to get up a set of stairs quickly. I get to one of the last flights on my way to the seventh floor. I figure if I can make it up faster than the elevator, I will have something to rub in Jameson’s face when he gets there.
I hurry my pace, skipping some steps. I can make it to the top faster if I give it one last push, one last boost, one last—
My foot misses the step. My hands barely have enough time to reach out and catch myself.
The concrete steps harshly scrape the skin of my hands and knees as I skid down them. I wince, clenching my teeth and breathing through the gaps.
I have fallen down almost an entire flight of stairs.
“God damn it,” I seethe, my voice rough and scratchy. I turn so I’m not lying on my stomach anymore and begin assessing my injuries. The palms of my hands are skinned completely, covered in blood blisters. My kneecaps are blooded as well. They’re bleeding so bad the blood is streaming down my calves.
“Oh, my God,” I gasp, seeing myself in complete horror. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. “Oh. My. God.”
I try to stand, but the stinging in my knees makes them buckle. I fall back into my sitting position on the step. I make another attempt to stand, this one hurts worse. “Ow. Ow. Ow.”
I stand eventually, taking one slow step at a time up the last flight until I make it to the seventh floor.
“God damn it, Gen. Why the hell do you have to be so fucking clumsy?” I scold myself as I make it to the last step. I”m usually not clumsy, but I’m kicking myself for being it at this moment.
I push the door open and begin walking through the hall toward our room.
Being in so much pain really doesn’t affect me that much, since the only thing that is going through my head is ‘God damn it, I let Jameson beat me.’
Our rivalry has gotten out of hand. I’m starting to look like a punching bag, partly on my account.
So much for getting to my hotel bed sooner. One I”ll have to share, anyway. Now I’m battered and beaten, I can barely walk, and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
The first thing I think once I get over my loss to Jameson is, ‘How have I only made it this far down the hallway.’
And then, ‘Dear lord, please tell me I didn’t hit my head on the way down, because I feel like I’m going to pass out.’
I slump against the wall, feeling like it’s going to collapse beneath me.
“Genevieve?” I hear a voice, I can’t decipher whose it is, but it sounds far away. I slump further down the wall. “Genevieve? What happened?”
I see someone blurry crouching in front of me, moving a piece of hair out of my face. “Genevieve, can you hear me?”
I finally recognize who’s in front of me. “Jameson?”
“Yes, yes. It’s me.” It goes quiet for a second. I reach out and touch his arm, feeling the wool of his jacket against my fingertips. “What happened, Genevieve? What did you do?”
“I hurt myself.”
“I can see that.” He’s not laughing. I feel awful, because I would be if the roles were reversed. “How?”
“I fell going up the stairs, and then fell down them, scraping my hands and knees.” I hold my hands out, showing him the damage. Then, I become frantic . “Did I hit my head? I feel like I hit my head. Jameson, is my head bleeding?”
“You’ve got a pretty bad nick on your forehead, that’s what I’m holding pressure on right now.”
Jameson’s touching me? Why can’t I feel it?
I try to pull away from him. I hate him, remember? I don’t need his help.
“I need to get back to my hotel room. I need sleep.”
He pulls my head toward him, pressing his hand to my forehead again. “Genevieve, you can’t go to sleep, you probably have a concussion.”
“Why do you care? We hate each other.” I pull away again, bracing myself against the wall as I attempt to stand. “I don’t need your help.”
When I sink back down, I don”t have the energy to stand again. My knees still sting, and my palms are letting little droplets of blood free.
“I’m not going to leave you here, I’m not that much of an asshole.”
“Can you bring me to the hotel room? I need to sleep this off; I swear, I’m fine.” I make an effort to argue, but Jameson isn’t giving in.
“You need to see a doctor before you sleep.” I shake my head. I don’t need a doctor. More importantly, I don’t need Jameson to bring me to a doctor. “C’mon brainiac, you know better than this. Tell me, what are the major symptoms of a concussion?”
“You can’t be serious,” I slur, leaning my head against the wall, closing my eyes.
A nap sounds really ni—
“Hey!” I feel a light tap against my cheek. “You’re not allowed to sleep. Now answer my question, Genova.”
“Why are you quizzing me? I don’t want to play.” My eyes fight against me to close again; this time, I don’t abide.
“You need to stay awake. Prove to me how smart you are, even when you’re bleeding from the head. What are the main symptoms of a concussion?” He asks again.
I rack my brain. “Concussion, also known as MTBI—mild traumatic brain injury. A traumatic brain injury caused by a blow to the head.” I list everything I can recall about concussions.
“Good.” Jameson is typing on his phone now.
“When I was younger, I had a picture book about the brain and a bunch of common injuries that happen to it. Concussions were one of them.” I had a book like this about every vital organ, but that’s not the point. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to visualize the brain book in my head.
“Okay, tell me all the symptoms you can think of. I know that you know, Genevieve. Don’t let me beat you.”
That sparks it. “Nausea, vomiting, slurred speech, dizziness.” My eyebrows furrow; I know there’s more. “I can’t think of anything else,” I groan.
“C’mon, you know more.”
“No, I don’t.” I sigh, trying to recollect my thoughts.
“Well, I know more, so I guess that means I win. Is that what you want? For me to win?”
Another spark of thought. “Memory loss of the event, confusion, headache, pressure in the head and neck, dazed.”
“Good, really good, Genevieve.” He brushes more hair out of my face. “How many of those are you experiencing?”
“About…” I look up at the ceiling tiles, doing the calculations. “Sixty percent.”
He looks worried, but still has a taunting smile on his face. “You did it.”
“Fuck!” I realize. “I just proved I probably have a concussion.”
“That you did.” He checks his phone again. “And I have a doctor coming up to check on you. I can take you back to your hotel room until she gets here.”
“How did you even find a doctor that quickly?” To be fair, I have absolutely no idea how long we’ve been sitting here.
“I messaged her twenty minutes ago. Wren gave me her number last night when Winnie and Logan needed antibiotics.”
“You had a doctor bring them antibiotics?” I didn”t know that.
“Yeah, nobody knew because they thought that they would have to go home if the school found out they were sick.”
One of his arms falls under my armpit, wrapping around my torso so he can help me stand.
“Why are you being nice to me?” He keeps me upright as I attempt to hobble down the hallway. In reality, he’s doing most of the work.
“Well, I’m never intentionally mean to you.”
“Yes, you are,” I reply quickly, my voice laced with confusion. “We both are intentionally mean to each other.”
“That’s what you like to make it out to be.”
“Don’t pretend like I’m incapable of reading between the lines, Jameson.” I cross my arms over my chest, stopping in the middle of the hallway. “I’m just as smart as you, if not smarter.”
It’s a lie. In all honesty, I have no idea how I’m beating Jameson in this competition for Valedictorian. He is obviously much more level-headed than I ever have been.
“You can read between the lines—I never said you weren’t—but under these circumstances, you are wrong.”
“What exactly are ‘these circumstances?’”
“We’ve been in constant competition with each other since I got to America, Genevieve. We are basically fabricated to not get along. I’ve never hated you, not once. You annoy me to the greatest extent sometimes, and your intelligence can be aggravating.”
I scoff. Of course, he thinks my intelligence is aggravating. All intelligence that is being put head-to-head against your own is.
“But, at the end of the day, our competition is like fuel. We both feel the need to be the best, and we strive to exceed each other in pursuit of it. I’ve never hated you because I think you’re a bad person, or because I feel cruelty against others; I needed to dislike you because of our rivalry, because if our rivalry were to end, neither of us would have something to work toward.”
“Your argument lacks evidence,” I dispute. My head is still spinning, and I can barely see straight, but I try not to take notice of that. “It doesn’t matter what grounds you decided against befriending me on, you still decided to turn what could have been a great partnership into a toxic feud.”
It’s the truth.
“And I’m not blaming you for it, because I did the same thing. But what also contradicts the ordinary is the fact that you think lack of a rivalry would cause us to not work as hard. Maybe you’re speaking for yourself, but I have never tried to learn or to be the best merely to out-do you.”
I try to hoist myself out of his grip. We have barely made any movement to reach our room since this argument arose. He holds strong, sensing my impatience and taking a few steps toward the door.
I can see it; we are so close.
It still feels like an eternity away when Jameson begins bickering again.
“I’m only telling you this because I’m ninety-nine percent positive you have a grade one concussion and won’t remember most of this conversation in the morning.”
My elbow goes flying, using what little strength I have. “You underestimate me.”
He groans lightly but brushes it off quicker than I could have. “No, I’ve just read a fucking textbook all about head injuries. It’s science, Genevieve.”
“Well, let’s hear what you have to say then.”
“Wow, there really is a first for everything.” I’m tempted to elbow him again, but I restrain the urge. “Anyway, as I was saying, if we wouldn”t have been so worried about defeating each other, we wouldn’t be in this position in the first place.”
“Of course, we wouldn’t be in this position. We wouldn’t even know each other if you didn”t come to Fairwood.”
“You don’t know that,” he responds optimistically.
We finally reach the door, and I reach for my purse that I somehow did not lose along the way.
Before I can attempt to remove the single strap left on my shoulder, I feel Jameson’s hand on my back as he pushes the strap back onto my shoulder.
“Why are you doing that? I’m trying to take it off so I can get my key.”
“What pocket is it in?” He asks.I try to take it off again, but Jameson is holding it in place. “What pocket is it in?” he repeats with a dominating tone.
I sigh. “Very front.”
He unzips my bag with ease, pulling the key card out and handing it to me. “Let’s test your hand-eye coordination skills while we’re at it.”
I swipe the card with ease, the green light appearing above it. I look back at Jameson, smirking in accomplishment, but before I can completely revel in success, my hand misses the door handle, and the light turns red because I have taken too long.
My body falls into the door from where my hand slipped, a loud thud sounding.
God damn it.
Jameson is watching me contently, a smirk residing on his face. I wish to smack it off, but I think I’ve committed enough violence toward him today.
I’m frustrated now. “Can you just open the damn door so I can get some sleep?” I quickly realize how rude it sounds, so I amend my question with, “It’s not funny to pick on injured people.”
He takes the key card from my hand. “I”ll let you into the room, but you’re not allowed to fall asleep.”
He opens the door, and I take my key card from him before stepping into our room. “I am not going to die in my sleep, and I do not need a doctor.”
The line has been drawn between us, yet again.
I go to shut the door right in his face, no longer wanting to engage in conversation with him. His hand flies through the gap of the door though, and he pries it open.
“Not so fast, I’m staying here too, remember?” He grabs my wrist as he steps into the room. “I’m going to make sure you don’t fall asleep. Lay down and I’ll wait with you until the doctor gets here.”
I hesitate, but lower myself so I’m sitting on the bed. My head feels much clearer now that Jameson Beaumont is standing in the hotel room with me, but the pounding is much more noticeable.
I try not to wince. “Tomorrow is the last day we”re skiing. Shouldn’t you be studying up on how to ski or something?”
“If I don’t know it by now, I’m not going to know it by tomorrow.” He shrugs, sitting in the rolling chair by the desk in the corner of the room.
“Slow learner?” I tease.
He doesn’t even crack a smile, but he looks amused. “No, I already know everything there is to know about skiing, now it”s just about applying it.” He rolls the chair closer to the edge of the bed where I sit. “Lay down.”
Normally, I would never listen to Jameson so easily, but my head is pounding and lying down actually sounds really nice. So I do. My head hits the pillow and against my will, my eyes fall shut.
I feel a pinch on my calf and my eyes shoot open again. “Stay awake, Genevieve. The doctor should be here soon.”
“Wake me up when they get here,” I mumble, but Jameson grabs my arm, pulling me into a sitting position. Now, I’m angry. “You realize that keeping someone awake when they possibly have a concussion has zero benefits. If anything, you should let me sleep so that any brain damage can be healed.”
“There is no way for me to monitor possible brain damage when you are asleep. I’m not saying you can’t sleep, just wait until a doctor checks you.”
“When will the doctor be here, then?” My hands are shaking, and my head is throbbing. I feel like I’m milliseconds away from passing out.
“Soon,” he says, and I can tell he sees right through me. Jameson sees how much pain I’m in, and I can’t even pretend that he doesn’t.
I grip the back of my head, running my fingers through my hair and pulling at the end of the strands. My eyes are squeezed shut.
God, my head hurts.
“Come here,” Jameson waves me toward him as he rolls closer in the chair.
Confusion paralyzes me. “Huh?”
“Come closer, Genevieve.” My skepticism is obvious, but I hesitantly scoot forward, edging toward the furthest corner of the bed.
He stands from the chair, pushing it so it rolls back toward the corner where it belongs. Then, he sits next to me on the bed. I look at him, my vision blurring. The dizziness is taking over. Jameson slides toward me, so I slide further away from him.
His hands reach up to my head, and I try to pull away. “Let me help.”
“What are you talking about? I thought we were waiting for the doctor.”
I try to focus on one of the paintings on the walls because it feels like my heart is going to burst out of my chest with how fast it’s beating. It doesn’t help, and now it’s like my blood is running cold.
Yet my body is soaring, and my skin is warming with every touch Jameson makes.
His fingers reach up from my goosebump covered arms to my head. His hands are resting on either side of my face, and his middle and pointer finger start to massage my temples.My body reacts on its own terms, and I fight the urge to moan in relief as I lean into Jameson’s hold. His hands are warm, his fingers callused as they work against the side of my forehead.
I feel the metal of his wristwatch skim my jawline.
“Better?” he asks tauntingly, knowing he’s helping me tremendously. When I don’t respond, he removes his hands. “I’ll stop, then.”
I want to beg him to keep going. The throbbing in my head is already returning. I wince at the pressure pulsing against my frontal lobe and try to use my own hands to ease the pain.
But I’m not as strong as Jameson—not physically, at least. My hands aren’t as rough, and I can’t do anything to stop the pounding in my head.
He watches me struggle for a few moments before he smirks and puts his hands back to my temples. “Are you finally admitting I am better than you at something?”
If I don’t respond, he’ll stop again, so I agree, “Yes.”
As the minutes pass, I become more and more tired, falling further and further into Jameson’s touch. I don’t know how long it takes before the doctor knocks on the door, but it’s a while.
A while of Jameson helping me. A while of inching closer and closer into Jameson’s hold.
A while of Jameson and I ceasing battle.