Chapter 23 Pike
Pike
Everything’s completely fucked.
Not sleeping with Skylar is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. If I thought I had feelings for her before Whistler, thinking we’d get together that night only ramped everything up unbearably.
I should thank Skylar for interrupting me before I could pour out my sappy feelings. Still, I regret every word unsaid. Instead of telling her how much she means to me, I made her feel undesirable.
But sex with Skylar, knowing it’d only be a one-time thing? I’m not sure I’d recover.
She made it clear she doesn’t do relationships. Why did I think she might change that for me? Just because we’re attracted to each other doesn’t mean she wants to date. I know this tune; I used to sing it all the time.
“Pike!” Ranielle’s voice snaps me back to the present as a ball hits my chest. “You suck today.”
I wobble on my right leg, catch it, rebalance, and hurl it back. Her sculpted brown arms receive it like a lobbed feather.
“Engage your core.”
Easy for her to say with her enviable six-pack and stable SI joint. I lose balance on the next toss and stumble. Pain radiates up my back. “Shit!”
My phone buzzes again, and I steel myself. It’s been three days since we got back, and I’m already dealing with paparazzi and countless interview requests. A few disability advocacy programs even reached out.
I mark most emails unread. I could barely think of what to say to Blake. How am I supposed to make a good impression when it really counts?
The article’s reception has been mostly positive, but there’s still shit. Comments like He’s too young to be disabled and It’s such a shame and He had so much potential. And then there’s Poor guy can only get a disabled chick now.
Any commentary regarding Skylar makes me want to kick in some teeth. She texted saying it could be worse, and that she’s mostly disappointed Blake left out everything she said about disability except that she has IIH.
We’ve barely spoken since. I’ve called her a few times to check on her, since she was sick the entire flight, and even texted a borderline-desperate Can we talk about Whistler? But she responded, Sorry, I can’t right now. I keep hoping the next notification will be from her.
But it’s just Mom with the latest article.
Olympic Medalist Forced to Work Minimum-Wage Job Due to Disability
Next time, she writes, focus on the job you *could* have. The three of us should prepare a strategy for the next reporter.
I reply, After what you did with Blake, your Skylar privileges are revoked.
“Don’t mind me,” Ranielle says. “I’m good getting paid to do nothing.”
“Sorry.” I close the thread, but another text pops up immediately.
Great article, kiddo. Happy for you, finding someone to settle down with. How about a weekend in Vegas so I can meet her? Let’s talk about that venture too.
I scowl. Not a good time.
“What’s up, Pike?” Ranielle’s tone is unusually soft.
“It’s nothing.”
She points to my PT table. “Then let’s stretch.”
I lie down, and she pulls my left leg toward her.
“Why’d you leave your favorite trainer out of the article? Do you know how many celebrities I could work with if you name-dropped?”
“If I name-drop, you’ll leave me.”
She laughs, but I make a mental note to hype her if I do another interview.
After a shower and nap, it’s already past dinnertime.
I microwave popcorn, divide it into two bowls, and head to the den, where Luis is glued to that reality show where people box their loved ones’ exes.
He started watching it when he got sick, probably as a distraction, the same way I watch game shows.
“Where’s Skylar?” he asks.
I shrug. “Home.”
“I thought everything went well.”
“It did. Everything’s great.” Obviously can’t admit I’ve fallen for her and then screwed up any chance of intimacy by failing to express my feelings, as usual. “How’re you feeling?”
“My PEM’s been bad lately, but I lined up a new investor for my start-up while you were gone. Maybe you should go on vacation more.”
“You mean so you can have the house to yourself with Cyrus?”
He chucks a kernel of popcorn at me. “That too.”
“Let me know if you need me to find a new place. I like living here, but if you want to move in with him, I get it.”
I need to find a permanent place anyway, but I don’t know where in the world I want to live. And, frankly, it’s nice having company when I get home from work.
“Eventually, that’s the plan,” Luis says. “For now, I’m happy to have you pay up so I can save for that future.”
“If I can help with any connections or introductions,” I say, “please let me know. I don’t know how much snowboarding overlaps with IT, but it’s no problem.”
“For sure. Thanks.”
My phone rings.
“I read your article,” Kal says as I head to the kitchen. “Why didn’t you tell me Skylar is Skylar King, aka Lennox’s friend?”
“What?” Skylar’s last name isn’t in the article. “I’ve never heard Skylar mention Lennox. Are you sure?”
A long sigh. “Analia?”
“Analia I’ve heard of.”
“Pike.”
“What?”
“Analia is Lennox.”
“What…?”
“Are you serious right now? How can you not know this?”
“It’s not like I’ve met her.”
“I remember showing you pictures of her at your house.”
That was middle school. We had pictures of every girl. “You always call her Lennox. Why?”
“Her full name’s Analia Lennox.”
I sit. Did I ever know her first name was Analia? When I was ten, maybe. “Hey! You met Skylar. If you’re such good friends with Analia, wouldn’t you recognize her?”
“I’ve never seen pictures of her. Lennox won’t share much about her two online besties. Honestly, I’m relieved at least one of them isn’t a sixty-year-old man.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Has Analia said anything about me?”
My bigger concern: that she’s said something to Skylar. I can only imagine Analia telling her about the time Kal and I met up while he was backpacking in Europe. We drank so much grappa we tried to scale an Italian national monument.
Kal lets out a low laugh. “She was worried. Thought you might be an asshole.”
“Why?” What did Skylar say?
“It’s not personal. She’s just not a fan of my friend group and assumed you were part of it.”
“What’s wrong with your friend group?” And why isn’t Analia part of it?
“It’s a Lennox thing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Did you at least tell her I’m not an asshole?”
“Yeah, but she’s being ridiculous. We generally avoid talking about my friends, but now she’s mad because I didn’t mention my friend was fake dating a girl named Skylar.” I can practically hear his eye roll. “Somehow it’s my fault I’ve met Skylar when she hasn’t.”
“Yeah, what’s with that? Why haven’t they met?”
“Lennox has always been an introvert. Her future husband’s probably gonna be some online nerd.”
You better get online, then. “What if the four of us went out for dinner?”
“Sure, if Lennox wants to.”
My phone beeps. I glance at it and forget Kal is still talking. It’s Skylar.
“Hey,” I breathe.
“Pike? I’m sorry to call so late.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Is there any way you could come over? I…I need help.” Her weak voice sets off alarm bells.
“I’ll be right there.”
“I can’t answer the door, but I’ll tell my landlord you’re coming. He’s at the end of the row.”
“Why? Are you hurt?”
“It’s…embarrassing.”
I don’t care what it is. I’m already halfway out the door.
As I enter Skylar’s town house, my heart pounds in my ears. The first floor is dark, and a horrible retching echoes through the quiet space. I speed up until I reach the stairs.
Shit. Stairs.
I heave myself up, wishing I hadn’t done physical therapy earlier. When I finally make it to the top, it takes a moment to pinpoint the gut-wrenching whimpers.
I rap on her bathroom door.
“J-Just a sec. It’s gross in here,” she rasps. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t come in.”
“I’m coming in anyway.”
I’m still unprepared for the sight inside.
Skylar lies curled on the floor, a white towel barely covering her.
Her eyes resemble a vampire’s, red and swollen.
Snot streaks her face, and her wet hair is coated in puke.
A trail of vomit and water stretches from the still-running shower to where she lies, halfway to the toilet, like she tried crawling there but couldn’t make it.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
A tear tracks down her dirty cheek. “I’m sorry.”
I instantly regret my reaction. She thinks she’s an inconvenience, someone I have to deal with, when it’s the exact opposite. I want to be there for her, to make the hard moments easier if I can, or at least keep her from facing them alone.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I say. “What happened, sweetheart? Are you hurt?”
“My ped is exploding with hain.”
What?
She squeezes her eyes shut and clutches her head. Oh. Her head is exploding with pain.
“I was shaking a tower. Got dizzy. Had to sit down so I wouldn’t fall.” My mind scrambles to interpret her aphasia. “But I couldn’t get up. Feel like…I’m in a submarine. Ears screaming. Eyes stabbing.” She gasps. “Sorry.”
“It’s no problem. I’ve thrown up plenty, believe me.” I remember how vulnerable I felt vomiting after my surgeries, and I wasn’t even lying naked on a bathroom floor. I find more towels and cover her body and the mess.
“What do you need? What would be helpful?”
“In the linen loset. Blue. Emesis bag.”
All too familiar with those hard-rimmed hospital bags, I grab two. She vomits again, but at least it’s contained.
“Maybe we should go to the ER,” I say.
“No!”
“I’ll go with you.”
“They hon’t—won’t help me.”
“You’re throwing up pretty badly.” And barely able to speak. “You could get fluids. Nausea meds.”
“They won’t help me. I’m not going.”
Her refusal sends unease down my spine. Did something happen to her at the ER?
“Do you want help getting to your room?” I ask.
“Not yet,” she says weakly. “I’m covered in puke.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Can you give me my nausea meds?”
After I locate her pill collection, I get to work cleaning, but all the bending is agony. I need a mop.
Which means going downstairs.
I miss Luis’s no-stairs floor plan. Skylar’s lack of railing makes it worse. Balancing a mop and bucket while pushing up with my cane results in too many wobbly steps before I give up and sit. I shove the supplies ahead of me, step by slow step.
When I moved into Mom’s house, I had to crawl up and down like this to my room. That only lasted two weeks before I bought a temporary bed for the first floor and started looking for a new place.
After disinfecting, I force myself to sit behind Skylar. Now we’ll both struggle to get back up. But it’s the only way I can help.
I pull her head onto my lap. “I’m going to wash your hair, okay?”
I dip a washcloth into the shower and clean her matted strands the best I can. I smooth a thumb over her cheek when I’m done. “Good as new.”
It’s getting harder to hide my worry, though. She says these symptoms are common. She’s made it this far without my help. But Skylar’s dry heaving, already on her second emesis bag in less than an hour.
“Can I call Analia or Emy?” I ask. “I really think we should go to the ER, but I can’t manage the stairs alone.”
“Nooo. Don’t make me.” Fuck, she sounds so short of breath. “It’s worse than Dr. Wharton.”
An acidic taste fills my mouth. She’d rather lie in her own vomit than see a doctor.
“We need to get you off the floor. You’re shaking.”
I grip the toilet for help, my back splitting in half as I push up with one leg. In her room, I grab a chair, sweats, and a shirt.
I slip her feet into the sweatpants. Her legs are freshly shaved, and I have to resist running my hands up her smooth skin to soothe her. She takes over when I reach her thighs, and I turn around as she finishes dressing.
“I’m going to pull you up.” I sit in the chair behind her. “You hold your bag. It’s going to suck, but we can do this.”
I hook my elbows under her armpits. She vomits, but I get her onto my lap. When I likely tear another hip labrum trying to stand, I realize I physically cannot do this. I’d have to drag her across the floor.
Tempted to hate my body, I scrub a hand over my mouth. Two years ago, I would’ve been able to carry her, no problem.
But I know it’s not my fault. What happened today isn’t Skylar’s fault either.
Fuck all that noise. It’s okay to ask for help.
I take out my phone.
“Way to hang up on me,” Kal says.
“Listen,” I say. “Are you sober?”