25. Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-five
Matt
Nolan is upset about Maison always putting Carter first, something I end up having to explain to Maison when he tries coming to him before leaving to move Carter and Casey out of the house.
He doesn’t want to cook breakfast when Bryce comes up to check on things, so Bryce takes me down to the kitchen to fend for ourselves.
We do alright, actually. He makes boxed pancakes that are just soft enough from the butter he spreads over them without feeling soggy. I eat almost greedily, pausing to take sips of my pulp-free orange juice every once in a while.
I stick my tongue out at Bryce when he says I’m a heathen for not wanting syrup on my pancakes. I try not to think about what that syrup would feel like in my mouth. He laughs and I smile and things feel okay.
Then I take another drink of my orange juice and - and - and there’s something else in my mouth, something non-liquid, something chunky, bouncing on my tongue as the juice slides around.
The juice was pulp-free.
It was supposed to be pulp-free.
But it’s - it’s not, I guess.
It’s not, it’s not, it’s not, it’s not-
“Matt?”
I manage to swallow it, shuddering. Then I swallow the juice-flavored vomit trying to crawl back up my throat. I swallow, swallow, swallow. It doesn’t get better.
Nothing ever gets better.
Byrce doesn’t try to stop me when I leave.
I make it to the bathroom, but not the toilet.
The sound my stomach’s contents make against the tiled floor is an awful echo, worse than when I’ve been throwing up in the toilet later.
There’s no soft landing in a puddle of water.
No short travel. It’s a splat, going everywhere, wet and messy and I fall in it on my knees, my hands in it, and it’s everywhere and I sob and sob and choke on the sob because more is coming up and everything burns, everything is awful, everything hurts, this isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, I hate this, it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.
How do I get this part to stop?
I’m so tired of being a ghost.
What do I have to do to finally pass over?
Someone is singing quietly. Warm water is washing down my back, the pressure soft, like rain droplets. Something hard and cool is beneath me. My ankle bone is digging into it. I tell it to move, but it doesn’t listen. It’s tired, too. It’s so tired.
I’m so, so tired.
It takes a lot of energy to open my eyes, but I manage it when the scent of soap fills the steamy air.
The front wall of the shower is in front of me, the faucet where the water would come out for a bath is only a few inches away.
If I tipped my head back, I’d be able to see the nozzle for the water above, but it’d probably get in my eyes then, so I don’t.
“Hey,” Bryce says, his soapy cloth pausing on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze through the material. “There you are.”
I force myself to look toward him. I don’t last more than a second before shutting my eyes and ducking my chin. The water runs down the back of my neck. It feels nice. Calming.
“I won’t tell Nolan, if that’s what you’re worried about. I won’t tell anyone. It’s no one’s business.”
I swallow. My throat is aching, but I’m not sure if it’s from the previous sobbing, or the vomiting, or the urge to start crying again, or something else. It doesn’t matter. Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be able to tell him.
“I don’t know how to wash your hair with this fancy soap and stuff, so I wrapped it in a shirt. Keep your head tilted if you want to keep it dry, okay?”
He starts moving the cloth again, down my back now.
I let my eyes fall closed and lean forward to rest my cheek on my knees, facing him, but not looking.
He washes my back and my other shoulder and my arm. There’s the sound of more soap, then the cloth is passing along the hip nearest to him, up the side of my thigh.
“Was it the food?”
I hunch in on myself, but I answer with a slight shake of my head.
He takes one of my hands, not pulling hard enough for my arms to have to unwind around my legs. I crack my eyes partly open to peek at him. He’s focused on my hand, each finger getting cleaned. I remember falling into the vomit from before and close my eyes again.
He must have found me.
He must have cleaned up all of that mess.
He shouldn’t have to deal with me.
I bet he wishes I fully died that night. I bet he regrets whatever he did to make my ghost stick around. I bet he wishes he could escape being haunted.
Except, it’s Bryce, and Bryce is too good of a person to think things like that. I wouldn’t blame him, though. I wouldn’t blame him at all.
“Was it the juice?” he asks when he switches to cleaning my other hand.
I nod.
“It had pulp in it. Wasn’t supposed to, but it did.”
I suck in a breath that sounds as water-logged as my body is.
He doesn’t ask if it was the pulp. He just knows.
“I’ll see if the kitchen has a cheescloth or something. I bet Nolan would be all over the opportunity to make his own juice. I’ll put other kinds of juices on the grocery list, too. Ones that don’t have pulp. Do you like apple?”
I do, actually. I like apple. I really, really like the apple mixed with grape kind of juice, though. That was always my favorite.
I take a deep breath and lift my head to look at him. He’s a lot like Ace in some ways, not getting overly excited by my attention, not making it feel like a huge deal, just smiling softly in acknowledgment.
I fingerspell, A-P-P-L-E. Then I sign, Together, not sure of what other word would work better, and fingerspell, G-R-A-P-E.
His lips move as he silently keeps track of the words. Then, “You like the juice with apple and grape together better?”
My shoulders relax. I nod. I put my head back down, feeling even more tired than before.
“The white stuff?” he asks, showing me one finger. “Or the darker, reddish stuff?” He adds a second finger.
I show him one finger, then close my eyes and hope the conversation can be over.
It can be, until it’s time to get out. He doesn’t talk at first, just helping me up to my feet and handing me a towel, then using another towel to wipe at my exposed skin. When my neck is nice and dry, he carefully unwraps the towel he’d twisted around my hair.
The floor of the bathroom is clean.
There’s a pair of soft sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt on the counter that he helps me step into. I try not to think about the fact that the sweatshirt wasn’t this oversized when I first got here. I’m losing weight. Losing weight I didn’t really have to lose.
Is that how Bryce figured it out? Or has he always known?
Will he tell on me?
Even if he doesn’t, how long before others catch on? Before the doctors find out? Before everyone starts asking me questions I can’t answer?
“So, I found something for you.”
I curl the ends of my sleeves into my hands and squeeze the fabric, looking at him. He’s holding up a bright sticky note. There are words on it. I carefully accept the paper and read it. Twice.
Back in my office until morning.
Come hide?
No pressure.
A
I can feel my face go hot, though I’m not exactly sure why.
“I like Ace,” he says - which is shocking enough for me to snap my head up and look him in the eye. Bryce doesn’t like the operatives. Bryce hates them, mostly. Maison has a little wiggle room, but not much. He hates the doctors. He hates the guards outside.
But he likes Ace?
He must see the question on my face because he shrugs. “I’ve vetted him. He’s passed every test and then some.”
Oh.
I wonder what the tests were.
I wonder what the ‘then some’ is.
He reaches out and taps the edge of the sticky note. He’s smiling. “Like he said, no pressure. We don’t have to talk about it. Not the food or the juice or Ace or anything else. Just don’t forget that I’m here. I’m always here. Sounds like maybe he is too. Don’t forget that, alright?”
I rub my thumb over the - A on the note and nod.
He squeezes my shoulder and backs away, leaving me in the open doorway between the bathroom and bedroom. “Hope you have a better day.”
I watch him leave, thinking maybe I will.
Maybe I will.
Ace smiles when he answers his office door. “My dude, I took a 10 hour nap and feel like a whole new person. I think this calls for a night of throwbacks, you know? I’m thinking of the 90s. How do you feel about 90s music? You know, boy bands? Some Britney? TLC?”
I’m not given a chance to answer. I rarely am, whenever I first arrive. At first I thought it was nerves. Maybe it was, maybe it still is, but I think it’s also like he bottles up everything he wants to say inside himself until he gets the chance to tell me all of it.
I like the thought of that.
I like the thought that he’s willing to stockpile for me.
“You know, in this economy, any guy hanging out on the passenger side of his best friend’s ride is just making smart decisions.
Maybe that’s controversial. I’m just saying, it’s a thought to consider.
Should we start off strong or work our way up?
I think MMMbop would be a good choice. Or - wait, no - fuck no.
What am I thinking? It’s gotta be Spice Girls.
Unless we’re working our way up? What do you think? Up? Down? All around?”
He’s at the coffee table now, reaching down to grab something.
“Look, I got new snacks. I went a little crazy at the gas station by Carter and Casey’s new place.
Bought way too much shit. In my defense, I was starving and tired.
Oh, man - look at these. These are the fucking best. I’ve never even seen anything like it.
It’s like 5 feet of deliciousness, you know?
I already had one and there are two more, if you want to try.
No pressure. I know sour isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.
They had muffins, too. Why don’t we ever have muffins here?
Does Nolan only cook? Someone should get Nolan to try to bake.
I am so down for more muffins in our life, you know?
They’re all nut free. The muffins, I mean.
The candy, too. I checked. Double-checked, actually. ”
My brain stutters.
Nut free.