Page 44 of Famous Last Words
“You missed the game,” I say slowly. “Are… are you okay?”
After a pause, her broken voice comes back through the speaker. “Oh, shit. I didn’t even realize…”
My brows bunch together. Is she drunk? I shake my head again. “Can I come up?”
The buzzer sounds, and the pitiful lock on the door unlatches with a click. I take that as my invitation, pushing through the door and into the tiny foyer that smells like mold and something gross.
With a skeptical glance at the elevator, I decide I’d rather not risk my life tonight, so I opt for the stairs instead. When I reach the third floor, the door to 3B is on my right and I don’t hesitate before knocking probably a little too abruptly.
“Hold your damn horses.”
I scoff at the faint voice muffled through the wood, glancing up at the ceiling and grimacing at the old cobwebs that hang from the moldings.
The door opens and I take a step back, but then I get a look at her and my eyes widen. Dressed in a pale pink sweatsuit, a chocolate stain smeared down the front her sweatshirt, fluffy socks covering her feet, hair a messy knot on top of her head that bobbles with her movements, her blue eyes are at half-mast, a little bloodshot, and she’s keeled over, gripping the door with one hand and her stomach with the other.
“I’m sick,” she croaks.
Instinctively, I take a step back because I can’t afford to catch whatever she has, not before our game against Charlotte on Monday night.
“Don’t worry.” She waves a hand. “You can’t catch it.”
I quirk a brow, looking her up and down again. “How do you know?”
“Because I’m pretty sure youdon’thave a uterus.”
I relax at that, and she turns and shuffles slowly down the short hallway, clutching her stomach. And before I know it, I’m walking inside, closing the door behind me and following her like I have any business being here.
Fran lets out a stifled groan, gripping the wall, and I quickly come up behind her, bracing my hands in case she falls over or something.
“Um, do you need anything?” I ask after a moment.
Glancing at me over her shoulder, a small crease pulls between her eyebrows, and I can’t help but wonder if she didn’t realize I’d followed her inside.
“What are you doing here?” she grumbles, clearly annoyed by my presence.
“You literally look like you’re about to die,” I say. “Like hell I’m going to leave you alone like this.”
When she eyes me curiously, I realize that probably came across pretty heavy, so with a casual shrug and the hint of a smile, I keep it light by adding, “I can’t risk being the last person to see you alive. You end up dead? The media will have a fucking field day.”
She rolls her eyes, but then suddenly she stops and crouches over again, a helpless whimper coming from her, and I don’t know what the fuck is up with my heart, but I’ve never felt it clench in my chest the way it just did.Weird.
I look around at the apartment. It’s small. An all-in-one studio, her bed by the window, a tiny sofa, a kitchenette lining the far wall. I almost feel too big for the space.
Dumping my bag on the scratched wood floor, I move forward and lift Fran’s arm, ducking lower so I can drape it around my neck, helping her whether she wants me to or not.
“Where do you wanna go?” I ask, even though our options are limited.
She points, and I pull her closer as I walk her to the bed which is covered by a mountain of pillows all colors of the rainbow, perched right under the big window that opens up to the fire escape and looking out over the street below.
I help Fran onto the bed, and she lays back, rolling into a ball, and I just stand there taking in the sight of her. She looks so small and defenseless, nothing like her usual ball-busting self. I notice a few pill bottles on the nightstand and I feel something start to gnaw at the inside of my gut, and there goes my fucking heart again.
Pushing off my beanie, I tear my fingers through my hair, releasing a breath and considering my options. She’s obviously sick and in pain, and I’m probably the last person she wants hanging around. And sure, I should probably leave her to fend for herself, but I can’t go. I know she’s not really going to die, but I simply can’t leave her like this. It wouldn’t be right.
“What can I do?” I ask, looking around for some sign of what, I don’t even know. “Do you need anything? Food?” My gaze flits to the pill bottles. “More medicine?”
Fran holds a bright pink object up in the air. “Microwave. Ninety seconds on high.”
I take the item, realizing it’s a wheat bag, and I take it over to the kitchenette, popping it in the microwave.While I wait the ninety seconds, I snoop around, noticing the small fridge is empty save for a bottle of wine, some old cheese, and a bag of lettuce way past its use by date. The cupboards are just as bare, and frankly, that pisses me off and I don’t even know why.
