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“I dunno.” Long. Too long maybe. My body certainly isn’t happy with me.
“Did you drink water? Have you eaten today?”
I shake my head. Skipping lunch probably wasn’t my best idea.
“Come on. I was about to have dinner.” Her slim fingers dig into my wrist as she tugs me determinedly away from the pool of my vomit and the black spots dancing in my eyes.
“Syd…” No word about her being upset enough with me to leave the brunch table and not speak to me since then, same as West. Even in class she’s been avoiding my gaze, answering in monosyllables, and now…
Now she’s dragging me into our building and up the stairs. I resist weakly, refusing to go back home when dad is there, but she leads me to her door. She pushes it open and leads me inside.
I’ve only been in here once, briefly, a few months back when she’d been sick and I brought her my notes.
Her tight grip on my wrist is such a fucking relief. Proof she gives a damn, she’s here, and that I haven’t fucked up so badly I’ll lose her completely.
Not sure I’d survive that right now, to be honest. Not at this point.
The apartment is cool and quiet, a fine layer of dust covering the low table and the two sofas. Like the first time I entered, I find the place way too empty. No pictures on the walls. No knick-knacks and random objects like you’d find in any house—a stray newspaper, a magazine, a pack of cigarettes, a remote left on the table.
In fact, there isn’t even a TV or stereo.
Before I can even formulate a question about something that’s none of my business—again—we’re moving into the kitchen, and here it’s a different world. There are definite signs of life, dirty pots in the sink and a glass of cold lemonade sitting on the table covered in condensation. A tattered paperback is lying face down on the frayed checkered tablecloth, and there are colorful rugs on the floor.
A framed picture is propped up on the kitchen counter—a woman and a little girl.
She drags me to a chair before I get a better look and grabs a plate. “Pasta okay?”
“Sure.” When she opens the pot, the aroma that hits my nose is mouthwatering. My stomach grumbles. “Did your mom make it?”
“Why would my mom…?” Her cheeks color. “Know what, forget it. I cooked it. It’s not bad, I swear. I even ate some, if you’re worried, and hey, I’m still breathing.”
“Whoa.” I lift my hands in surrender. I seem to be putting my foot in my mouth all the goddamn time these days. “Sorry. Give it here.”
Wordlessly, she hands me the plate and a fork and I dig in. Dimly I’m aware she plunks a tall glass of water in front of me, too, but the pasta is good, and I’m famished. Hadn’t realized how much until now.
Same with her, I think randomly. I hadn’t realized how used I was to having her around, how good it was, until she stopped talking to me.
This isn’t lust. It’s more than that. It’s fucking with my head.
Forcing the thought out of my head, I let my fork drop in my now empty plate and lean back with a heartfelt groan. “Damn, you sure know how to cook, Shortcake. This was excellent.”
Her green eyes sparkle, and she has that small gap between her front teeth that turns her smile pixie-cute.
And sexy.
I grab the glass and gulp down the water, desperately hoping it can cool down other parts of me.
“Now,” she says, sliding into the chair next to mine, “tell me why you were running like that.”
But I can’t. “No reason.”
She twines her fingers together, weaves them into a fabric of flesh and bone. “Did you and West have another fight?”
Glancing sideways at the kitchen door, I rub my chin and consider the distance I’d have to bolt. No way, though. My leg muscles are trembling with fatigue. “West hates my guts.”
“Nonsense. West is your best friend.”
“Did he tell you he kicked me out of the apartment after you left?”
