Page 62 of The Narrow

“Well, she obviously is now,” Veronica snaps. “We’ve got to get her out of here.”

Get out of here. Yes. I need to get out of here before someone sees my lip or realizes why I’m stumbling around. I googled all my symptoms. Mild concussion. I recovered pretty quickly. I’ll recover again.

You’ve got a filthy mouth, Princess.

What had I even said to him? I can’t remember. I never remembered. Just the punch. Fist to the mouth. Falling. Drowning—

No, that wasn’t me. That was Maeve.

“Since when do you drink?” Ruth asks.

I turn in a tight circle. They’re all around me. Hemming me in. My heart starts to pound. I need to get away. I move toward the gap between Zoya and Ruth, but Ruth steps in my way.

Panic jolts through me. “Let me go,” I say. I need to go. I’m trapped and I need to get away, and the fear of it is like a bright sun blotting out my vision. It’s all I can see.

“Eden, you’re drunk, you can’t go off on your own,” Veronica says.

“Just let me go,” I say again, and turn, and step toward the empty space that’s opened up between Veronica and Ruth. But Veronica steps in front of me, reaching for my shoulders—

Where do you think you’re going, Princess?

The past blots out the present. Panic drowns out every other thought. It isn’t Veronica in front of me. It’s Dylan. Grabbing me by the shoulders, pushing me back toward the couch.

Stick around.

And I didn’t fight him. I didn’t struggle, I walked back to the couch and let him put his arm around me and all I wanted to do was scream and hit him and run, to get away, so Ido. I shove him hard in the chest, as hard as I can, a shriek in my throat, and he topples back—

But it isn’t Dylan, it’s Veronica, sprawled out on the forest floor as I stagger and sob.

I press my hand over my mouth, stifling a moan. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say.

Ruth and Zoya only gape at me as I back away, hands up, pleading, placating. Veronica gestures sharply to them. “Come on, let’s get her home.”

The world is spinning around me. I can’t breathe properly, only in hiccuping gulps. But Veronica reaches out gently, tentatively, two fingertips against my shoulder.

“You’re okay. We’re going to get you to bed, okay, Eden?” she says, tender and calm.

I shut my eyes. They sting with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m—”

“I’m fine,” Veronica says, worry—not anger—in her eyes. “I’m not hurt, and I’m not mad.”

“We’ve got you,” Ruth adds, and Zoya murmurs agreement.

I surrender to their care. Stumblingly, I follow them up the trail as Veronica murmurs encouraging, meaningless things. I can’t stop crying and apologizing. I’m barely aware of when we get to Abigail House.

“Maybe we should take her to Westmore,” Zoya suggests.

“If she gets caught in Westmore, they’re definitely going to have to cite her for being drunk, too,” Veronica counters. “What’s the code, Eden?”

I manage it on the third try, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. I can’t think. Can’t keep track of when I am. I keep sliding, toppling back down to that pit where Dylan is waiting.

Stick around.

“Okay. Here we go. Let’s get you into bed,” Veronica says encouragingly.

“Have to—the rain,” I say, gesturing at the showers.

“I think we can skip it for tonight.”

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