Page 43 of In the Net
“You need to eatsomething,” Harper says, her voice no-nonsense.
I sulk. “Fine. But if I throw up all over someone during take-off, I’m blaming it on you.”
Her eyes narrow. “If you throw up, I’m blaming it on the fact that you got absolutely hammered the night before a flight.” Herexpression softens as her words remind both of us just why I got drunk the way I did. “Alright, I’ll be right back.”
I shut my eyes against the bright lights of the airport terminal and the sun shining through the glass windows. Isn’t Paris supposed to be cloudy? Of course, on the day when bright light is like torture to me, the sky decides to be perfectly clear.
There are still clouds hanging right over my head, though. A dark, heavy one that follows me everywhere I go.
Today, some of the shock has worn off from the news. I’ve adjusted to the reality of Bryce being in the ICU. It feels like there’s a pit in my stomach that will never go away, but the pain in my heart isn’t as sharp and unbearable as yesterday.
This morning, I saw that Bryce’s mom made another post. No news. Better than bad news, obviously. Especially in this case. Still a whole hell of a lot worse than good news.
I’m trying to listen to Harper. Trying not to imagine the worst. But it’s hard.
Harper comes back with two coffees, a croissant for herself, and a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich for me.
I immediately grab the coffee, but I eye the sandwich skeptically.
“Eat it,” Harper commands.
It’s like my stomach is trying to crawl up my throat, but I know it’ll be good for me. I unwrap it and force myself through the motions of chewing and swallowing.
Shit, I don’t know how I’d have gotten through the last twelve hours without Harper. Last night, when I stumbled back to her room and banged on her door, I was so desperate not to be alone with my thoughts, I don’t know what I would have done if I had to be. If she weren’t there for me to go to.
She helped me pack my stuff this morning when I could hardly see straight. Made sure I drank fluids and took some medicine, then led me through the whole trip to the airport.
Sure, I helped her when she was sick, but all I had to do was look after her while she lay in bed. Plus, it’s not like it’s her fault she got sick. Itismy fault I drank myself into a stupor. It’s my fault I’m such a bad friend that my guilt drove me to do so.
“It made you feel better, didn’t it?” Harper questions tauntingly after I finish off my sandwich and wash it down with a couple mouthfuls of coffee.
I glare at her. She grins knowingly in response.
She turns to look at the big screen displaying departure information across from the café.
“Oh, our flight finally got assigned a gate,” Harper says. “We should make our way over. It’s on the other side of the terminal.”
After the sandwich, my stomach feels a little more settled when I stand up from the café table, and after the coffee, my steps feel a little more stable as I follow Harper down the long halls of the terminal.
My head is still a damn mess, though.
Suddenly, Harper stops.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. She’s staring at her phone.
She peeks up from her screen, and there’s no mistaking the relief shining in her eyes. “Sebastian, look.”
She holds her phone out to me. When I see that it’s another post from Bryce’s IG account, my heart bounces against my chest. My eyes scan the message.
For a couple beats, I feel nothing but numb disbelief.
I don’t want to let myself believe it yet. If I put my head down onto my arms in the café, and I’m dreaming right now, I don’t want to feel the crushing disappointment when I’m woken up.
But time keeps ticking by, and I know I’m awake.
It’s Bryce’s mom posting on his account again. Saying that he stabilized over the last several hours. Saying that he regained consciousness just thirty minutes ago. Saying that the doctorsexpect him to make a full recovery. That he’ll even be able to see visitors as soon as tomorrow.
My best friend is going to live.
