Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Piper
I wake up because something is attacking my skull.
It takes ten seconds to realize it’s my heartbeat.
Another ten to realize I’m alive.
Another ten to question if that’s good news.
I peel one eye open. The tent is tilted… or I’m tilted. Hard to know. My tongue feels like it’s been replaced with an old towel, and my joints ache.
I try to sit up, but my body says no, so I lie back down and groan loudly.
There’s a grunt beside me.
Griffin rolls over, hair everywhere. The blanket is half on, half off, and his shirt is missing.
He squints at me. “Stop making noises.”
“I can’t help it,” I whisper.
“You’re whispering too loud.”
I glare at him with one eye. “Why does my brain feel like this?”
“You were drunk. You were high. You danced like you were avoiding snipers.”
I close my eyes again. “No more updates.”
“You drooled on my hoodie.”
I pull the hoodie closer around me. “It’s my emotional support hoodie. I claim it.”
Griffin sighs. He looks like he wants to argue, but he’s too tired to deal with me. He rubs his face with both hands. “I need water.”
“I need a new life,” I mumble.
I attempt to sit again. Fail again.
My head drops back to the pillow. “This is the worst hangover I’ve ever had.”
He pushes up onto his elbow and looks at me. “Your glitter is everywhere.”
Great.
Last night returns in brief, painful flashes.
I shut my eyes. “Griff… did we talk about anything important last night?”
“You declared me your property.”
I groan. “No.”
“You defended me from a psychic,” he adds.
“Nooooo.”
“And you cried over glow sticks.”
I cover my face with both hands. “I want the earth to swallow me.”
“Hangovers are punishment enough.”
I peek at him. He looks tired, but he also looks amused, which I hate and love.
“Will you help me sit up?” I ask.
His hand slides behind my back as he pushes me up slowly, steadying me when the world tilts.
I lean into him for a second because he’s warm, and I feel like a flimsy piece of cardboard.
His arms tighten around me. “We need water.”
“We need new bodies,” I correct.
“No, we need water and food.”
“I can’t eat.”
“You say that now, then you’ll smell my breakfast burrito and steal it.”
“I have never stolen a burrito.”
“You did last night.”
I freeze. “I what?”
He nods. “You took mine. Didn’t even blink. You ate the whole thing.”
I stare at him, horrified. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
“You growled.”
“What?”
“You growled at me.”
I drop my face into my hands. “I hate myself.”
“You good?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “But I feel less like dying now.”
“Good. Then you can walk.”
He grabs the tent zipper and opens it. Light floods in, making my eyes burn. I hiss and pull back.
Griffin shakes his head. “Come on, Pipes.”
“Carry me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
I reach up and hold onto his hoodie strings. “You’re heartless.”
“And you need hydration.”
He pulls me up by the wrists as if I’m a toddler learning to stand. My legs wobble, but he steadies me by the waist, and for a moment, the tent falls very quiet.
Very warm.
I swallow hard. “Breakfast?”
“And coffee before you cry again.”
I close my eyes. “I want to go home.”
“You are home,” he says, tugging me out of the tent. “It’s called suffering. Now walk.”
And I do.
Very slowly.
With great pain.
But I do.