Page 33 of Actions and Reactions
It’s been thirty hours.
The fact I’m painfully aware of that is definitely a sign of trouble, I know, but how am I supposed to help it?
Am I supposed to not worry about Si when he was so obviously unwell yesterday?
Should I just stop texting him and hope he gets back to me when he can?
No.
Of course I’m going to worry about him, and of course I’m standing in front of his apartment door knocking incessantly. I’ve been here for a good amount of time too, and there’s been no answer at all. No sign that he’s anywhere near close to opening the door.
Or even conscious.
Could he have gone somewhere else?
I checked the rink and the arena, and I talked to Gab and she said they haven’t spoken since Wednesday, which was the day before the wedding. I left everywhere in a hurry and shouted back pleas that whoever was there should call me if Si suddenly turned up.
I’ve gotten no calls, so I’m assuming no one knows where he is.
I didn’t think to ask the doorman downstairs if he’d seen Si, since again I was in a hurry when he waved me in without a care in the world. I’ve been here only a few times in the last month, but Arthur is a Pirates fan, so he knows me.
Does he even know I’m always here to see Si?
Has he seen him today? Has Si eaten? Can migraines be like, really dangerous?
My brain turns all the way off at that thought, and next thing I know, I’m kicking the handle and the door bursts open with a loud bang.
“Si!” I shout as I rush in.
I see no one in the main living room, or the kitchen, so I sprint toward his bedroom and again push the door open with enough force to leave a dent in the wall behind it.
“Si.” The catch in my breath at the sight in front of me comes from a cocktail of emotions that’s too complicated to even try to understand.
The room is completely dark, like it has been every time I’ve been in it before, but the difference this time is the look of absolute absence on Si’s face. His face that’s only illuminatedby the screen of his phone, which is way too damn close to his face.
“What’s going on?” I demand, and he finally seems to realize I’m here.
How did he not hear me before? What is he watching that had him so focused? And aren’t people who suffer from migraines supposed to stay away from screens?
“Vin?” he asks, voice groggy and confused. “I didn’t hear you,” he mumbles.
I’m rooted to the spot for a long time, not knowing how to proceed, what the right words are, if they even exist, or if I should be more worried or less than when I was outside the apartment.
“I had to break down your door, Si.”
“Why?” His tone implies thatI’mthe irrational one in this situation somehow. He’s holding his fucking phone for god’s sake. He clearly has data or Wi-Fi, so why the hell didn’t he text me back?
“Because I was knocking on the door for more than half an hour and you weren’t answering.” I leave theduhunsaid, but my voice keeps rising with every word. “And you haven’t answered my texts. You left yesterday looking physically ill and haven’t told me anything today, so I was worried!”
“I’m all better.”
That’s one big fat lie if I’ve ever heard one.
This monotone voice is not like him at all. He always puts some kind of emotion into his words. I almost don’t recognize him.
I know it’s him of course, but how can he not be more freaked out by this?
I take a slow step forward and he keeps looking at me blankly, so I take three more steps until I’m at the foot of the bed. After a moment where we only stare, I put one knee on the mattress. He doesn’t react at all, so I climb all the way up and quickly toe off my sneakers, then crawl until I’m next to him.
