Chapter 9
Emery
SugarLife
SugarLife
Oakley: Morning! Today’s the day you come home, I know it *heart eyes emoji*
Oakley: I’ve bought you a few microwavable meals and some ramen cups, plus there is a bunch of chopped-up fruit in the fridge *green apple emoji* *red apple emoji* *orange emoji* *watermelon emoji* *strawberry emoji* *pineapple emoji* *banana emoji*
Oakley: And I have pre-opened a juice *juice box emoji* and a soda for you
Oakley: You’ll be eating one handed in style!
Oakley: Okay, so I am just now realizing that I may have gone a little overboard with the food prep, but it’s only because I’m locking in my position as your bosom buddy.
Oakley: *Fingers crossed emoji* I see you tonight!
Will: Hey, are you coming to class today? FYI, the TA has taken over the class.
Will: Everything okay?
I stare at the wall of notifications on my phone screen. The only other time I’ve had this many messages first thing in the morning was the Monday morning after the weekend with the guys. My phone has basically only been used as a pom-pom-decorated communication device with Oakley since then.
If it weren’t for the fact that I actually got decent sleep last night after taking the meds that Sims had thankfully ordered, I’d think I was hallucinating.
Instead, I’m super glad I don’t have the finger thing on anymore, because I’m certain someone would be calling a code blue or whatever for a heart attack.
They sent me money. Again. After I said we were over. After I said red.
Another fucking double standard of theirs.
This entire time, they’ve been telling me that red means it’s over. Apparently, that isn’t true. Nothing they have said has been true.
A wave of heat rolls through my body, and I kick off the hospital blanket in irritation. I’m so over people telling me the things they think I want to hear just to manipulate me into going along with their plans.
Opening Oakley’s messages first, I take a deep breath and try to ignore the SugarLife notifications for now.
Doing a quick search for a gif of two old ladies having the time of their lives together, I find one and hit send.
Then I add a red heart emoji for emphasis before swapping over to Will’s messages and pausing.
What do I even tell him? It needs to be close to the truth because the next time he sees me, it’ll be hard for him not to notice the black brace on my wrist or the absolutely gorgeous bruise that has bloomed over my cheekbone and up into my temple.
Thankfully, the cut on my cheek didn’t need stitches and will heal just fine on its own.
I decide that a limited amount of the truth is preferable to the totally believable lie that Xavier came up with for me. Mentally, I roll my eyes. Using only my thumb on my right hand, I tap out a message.
Me: Hey, no class for me. Have a concussion. Will explain to you later in the week. Thank you.
I double-check the message and hit send, my hand tired from the awkward angle.
The screen doesn’t seem to be bothering me quite as much as yesterday, and whether that’s because I’m taking pain meds or because I actually got some good sleep last night, I don’t care.
All I do care about is that I’m improving enough to—hopefully—go home today.
Scanning my room, I spy a tray of food on my wheely table and push up from the bed to reach for it, bracing myself for the dizziness to hit. But it doesn’t come. Yeah, there is still that nauseous feeling, but it’s mostly background noise.
Before I’ve even managed to drag the table closer, my phone vibrates.
Will: Shit! Are you okay?
Will: Fuck, don’t answer that. Stupid question. Of course you're not okay.
Will: Do you need anything?
A frown tries to form as I read the messages, but I refuse to give in to it.
The old Emery would be surprised at someone’s offer of help.
The old Emery would wonder what they want in return for providing a small piece of kindness.
The old Emery would have given them whatever it was they wanted in the hopes that they would stay around longer.
But this Emery? She’s changing—into what, I’m not sure yet. But not someone who begs for people to choose her.
Balancing my phone in my braced hand, I stab at the keyboard and type as best I can, relying heavily on autocorrect.
Me: Yeah, I’ll be okay. I have a brace on my wrist as well, so I might be asking for help with notes for a couple of weeks.
Me: Still in the hospital at the moment. Hoping to get discharged today.
The messages are read instantly, and a bubble appears, the little dots jiggling for a few seconds.
Will: Shit. You're going to have to tell me what happened because my imagination is running with some pretty wild ideas.
Will: Do you need a ride home?
I pause. Do I need a ride home? Honestly, I hadn’t even considered how I was planning on getting home. Most likely an Uber. The mere thought of sitting upright long enough to get back to campus has me groaning. And what if the car has one of those fragrance things?
Will: I know what a concussion is like, so if you want to lie down on the back seat in utter silence and use me like a personal driver, I’m cool with that.
I don’t hate the idea of Will taking me back to campus.
Me: Actually, that sounds really good. Thank you.
Will: Okay, just let me know when. And in case I can’t come, Vinnie said he’ll help out too. But only if you promise to come to our study group as soon as you feel better.
Will: Also, I’m adding your student email to our group notes doc.
I shoot back a thumbs-up emoji, because the headache is starting to creep back in.
I’m just not sure if it’s from the screen or the actual conversation.