Page 19 of Save the Game

He releases my hand and raises himself into a pushup position above me. We’re barely touching, but I can still feel the weight of him, pressing me down. Holding me there. I can’t separate the real from the imagined, what he’s actually doing from what I fear he might do.

“Max?” He says, and he sounds so far away.

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to breathe. My skin is hot and my chest hurts so badly; the hammering of my heart is so violent I feel as though my ribs might crack. I think Luke is speaking but I can’t hear him over the pounding of blood in my ears. Bile rises in my throat and I barely have a second’s notice before I roll to the side and vomit.

I lose track of everything, my mind going blank as I struggle to do anything more than introduce oxygen into my lungs. My vision tunnels, and I know I’m going to pass out. I barely notice when a pair of hands touch me; something cold and wet is laid across my forehead. The world shifts as I’m pulled into a sitting position, and I’m coherent enough to recognize that somebody has an arm around my shoulders, lifting me up. The realization that I’m so incapacitated that I can’t remember who it is nearly has me blacking out in terror.

“Maxy, hey, it’s all right. Move down here, okay? Come over here,” Luke’s voice, so close to my left ear, feels like a lifeline. It’s Luke who’s touching you, just Luke. I want to tell him to call 911 because I can’t breathe and I think I’m going to die, but you need oxygen to talk so I do nothing more than lean against him.

I go where he directs me, totally disoriented as the room rocks and sways. We end up on the floor and he removes his arm from around my shoulder, sliding it up to the back of my head.

“Put your head between your knees. There you go, just breathe. You’re all right, you’re all right.” His voice is different, tight and stressed, and totally unlike the Luke from the diner or the one at the beach. Something cold touches the back of my neck and trickles down my spine. One of his hands is on my chest, tracing small circles over my heart.

“Breathe,” he tells me, and I’m grateful for the reminder. “Breathe.”

I have no concept of time. No idea how long we sit like that, with Luke rubbing my chest and chanting in my ear. The cold compress on my neck has long gone warm by the time I lift my face from my knees. I can breathe normally, but it feels like a hard-won battle; my chest and ribs ache, and my face is damp. I reach a hand up and touch my fingertips to my cheek. Jesus Christ, am I crying?

Luke discards the icepack, tossing it onto the floor next to us, and puts his arm over my shoulder to pull me against him. I go willingly, barely clocking the cold sweat covering my skin or the smell of vomit and fear permeating the small room. Almost as soon as I hope that he hasn’t noticed the tears, he reaches a thumb up to brush one away. I’m shaking, tremors wracking my body and causing me to tremble uncontrollably. He’s rubbing his hand up and down my arm, as though worried it’s because I’m cold.

He adjusts slightly, running his palm up and down my spine instead; soothing me the way one might soothe a spooked horse. I’m coherent enough to recognize that this is a situation I should feel extremely embarrassed about. I turn my face away from him, unwilling to let him see me cry if I can help it. Apologies crawl their way up my throat, but I swallow them down, reluctant to speak until I can be sure my voice won’t waver.

“Do you want me to get another icepack?” Luke asks quietly. “Do you feel lightheaded?”

“No,” I mutter, and there is no hiding the presence of tears in my voice. “Thank you.”

We’re sitting on his floor, backs to the bed. I’m mostly leaning against Luke, though, half of my body warm against his chest. He puts a hand to my sweaty hair, threading his fingers through soothingly. Leaning an elbow on my knee, I rest my forehead in my hand and close my eyes. The sickly-sweet smell of puke hits my nose; there is no coming back from this degree of shame.

“I should go,” I tell Luke, unable to look at him.

“No,” he says quickly, “no, stay a little longer. Just a little bit, okay? Please?” Another pass of his fingers through my hair before he wraps me in a half-hug again. “Here.”

He stretches a foot out and hooks it through the strap of his baseball bag. Plucking a water bottle from a side pocket, he unscrews the top and holds it out to me. My hands are trembling so badly, I can barely bring it to my mouth without spilling. I hand it back to him silently and he sets it down on the floor. I can’t think of a single thing to say that would make this situation better.

“I’ll drive you home when you want to go,” he says. “Or you can stay.”

The offer has a sob worming its way through my chest. I shake my head, mutely, and wipe a palm across my face. “I’ll buy you new sheets.”

It’s all I can think about. I puked on his bed. On his fucking bed. I almost wish it was possible to die of embarrassment; at least it would save me from this hell.

“Jesus, no, don’t worry about it. I’ll do laundry.”

“I need to go home,” I tell him, and this time he simply nods and unfolds himself from where we’re wrapped up in one another. He holds out a hand to help me to my feet, and I let him—I’m as shaky as a newborn giraffe. It hurts to look at him and see the worried expression on his face. I should never have come here; now all I’ve done is passed my misery onto him.

We dress in silence and Luke asks me to wait as he jogs up the stairs to have a quick conversation with one of his roommates. He’s back a second later, dark eyes shining in the dim light of the hall.

“I’m going to drive you home in your car, okay? That way you have it tomorrow when you need it. Jay is going to get dressed and come pick me up.” He smiles when he says this, hand brushing my arm. It seems that nothing can shake him—I wish I had half of his easy confidence.

“Okay,” I say, and reach for the door handle, “thank you.”

Luke walks me to the door of my apartment, clearly unsure of whether I can be trusted on the stairs or not. It takes me three tries to get my key in the lock with my shaky hands. Before I open it, I look back at Luke. He smiles, but it’s a dimmer version of the sunshine smile at the beach and I wish I hadn’t seen it.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” he says, and I think: no, you won’t.

I let myself inside and stand, uncertainly, in the vestibule. Marcos left the light on, like usual. I could turn right, take a hot shower and curl up in my bed alone while the anxiety eats me alive. Or I could turn left, knock on Marcos’ door, and let him shoulder yet another of my burdens. I turn right, padding softly to my room and clicking the door shut behind me.

I stay in bed long past the time I’m usually awake the next morning. Marcos and I both have late start today for class, which is why Luke and I had chosen last night to be our date night. Lying flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling, I can hear my roommate moving carefully around the kitchen. He’s not bothering to be quiet, assuming I’m already awake. Sitting up, I scrub my hands over my face and leave my phone where it is as I head into the bathroom. I don’t want to check it for fear of messages from Luke. Or a lack of them.

I actually slept remarkably well after the fiasco of last night. It’s as if my body needed a complete recharge after losing control at Luke’s like that. And there it is, I think, sadly, as the thoughts I’ve been trying to avoid all come rushing back. I never thought it would be possible, to feel worse than I did that night at the hospital last year. Yet, here we are, the morning after what had been an otherwise perfect date until I projectile vomited and then sat on the floor, while Luke held me as I sobbed like a fucking baby.

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