Page 131 of Relationship Goals

“Call Darren. Please.”

“Darren?” Luke asks, his tone shifting slightly.

“I need the rest of this stuff off my face. Now,” I moan. “Call him, please.” I manage to tell him the password to my phone. “He’ll know how to take care of me.”

“I can take care of you, Abigail, if you let me.”

“No,” I say, my voice cracking on the word. “You can’t, and you won’t.”

I can’t look at him. I don’t want to. Eventually, the door closes quietly behind him, and I wish for death. I wish for death for a long, long time.

•••

There’s a knockon the bathroom door, and for an extended depressive moment, I hope the grim reaper will walk into my bathroom and put me out of my anxious spiral.

Death does not come.

Darren, however, is here.

“Help,” I whisper, crying. How there is still any moisture left in my body is beyond me.

“Goddammit, Abigail.” He shakes his head. There’s a mask over his face, and he has on latex gloves, too. Smart.

“I’m dying,” I tell him.

“You’re an idiot, but you’re not dying. You’re having a panic attack.” He takes his mask off but leaves the gloves on as he winces, getting to work on the rest of the makeup he’s done.

I whimper, because that’s mean as hell. It also might be true, but we don’t have time to unpack all that.

“Luke’s gone to get you electrolytes, though why he’s bothering with you still, I can’t tell.”

I blink at him mournfully from where I’ve curled up on the cold tile floor. Cold tile is my new best friend.

“You’ve sweated half this off already. But I have to say, the whole deathly ill and piteous sobbing thing is really selling the Gollum look.”

“What do you mean? About Luke?” I ask hoarsely. My stomach aches, my chest, too, and it’s not all from the physical torment of whatever virus is plowing through me.

“You fucked up, Abigail,” Darren tells me, pulling at the edges of the silicone cap that’s covering up my hair.

I heave a sigh of relief—much better than the alternative—as he tugs it all the way off.

“By having a panic attack?” I ask. It’s nasally, because now he’s forcefully cleaning up my skin.

“Please tell me you’re not going to be sick. You smell like a sweaty locker room, and I swore I’d never be in one again after my freshman year.” He gives me a long look. “And, no. Not because you are having a panic attack.”

Dread settles all around me, sitting on my chest. “Why?” I wheeze.

“Because he recognized me.”

“He follows you on socials?” I ask, confused.

“You must be really out of it.” This time, he sounds slightly gentler. “No, he recognized me as Gerard, Abigail.”

“Who—” Oh. Ohhhh. “I feel sick.”

I clutch at my heart.

He lurches back, eyes wide. “You mean—”

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