Page 28 of Wilder Love
When we got to the parking lot, I propped our boards against the side of the Jeep, opened the hatch and told her to sit down. I rummaged in the back and came out with beach towels and my hoodie, instructing her to peel off the top half of her wetsuit. Her hands were shaking so badly she was having trouble with the simple task.
“Remy,” I said softly.
“I’ve got it,” she said. “It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine, so I did it myself, peeling the wetsuit down and wrapped a towel around her, then got on my knees in front of her and peeled off the rest of the wetsuit. Her skin was covered in goose bumps, her lips blue.
I grabbed another beach towel and wrapped it around her legs, then pulled my hoodie over her head. When she figured out I was trying to dress her like she was a toddler, she pushed her arms in the sleeves and hopped off the back of the Jeep.
Remy grabbed her backpack and brushed past me, in a hurry to get out of here now. I did a quick towel change out of my wetsuit and into shorts and a T-shirt and climbed into the driver’s seat, cranking up the heat as she pulled on leggings over her wet swimsuit. She reached for the hem of my hoodie to take it off, but I stopped her with my words.
“Just wear it for now. Until you warm up.”
“Thanks.” She pulled the sleeves over her hands and gripped them with her fingertips, wrapping her arms around herself again. I handed her a bottle of water and she thanked me, taking a few sips. “Just drop me off at home and then you can come back.”
Yeah, that wasn’t happening.
I drove her home. Nobody was there. What was I supposed to do? Just let her fend for herself? I waited for her to change out of her bikini because that was wet too. While she was in her bedroom, curiosity got the best of me. I checked the refrigerator and the cupboards—empty except for a few condiments, cans of Spaghetti-O's, a jar of peanut butter, and milk—and sifted through the stack of bills on the counter addressed to Rachel St. Clair. Final Notices. I speared my hand through my hair, reminding myself that this was none of my business. I had no right to look at someone’s mail or nose around in their kitchen.
Crossing yet another line, this one illegal, I stuffed the utility bill in my pocket and wandered into the living room. It was slightly cleaner than the last time I’d been here. A set of sheets and a pillow were stuffed into the corner of the threadbare tweed sofa, a pile of dirty clothes next to a black-painted dresser against the opposite wall with a TV sitting on top of it. It was quiet in the apartment and I called out her name, worried that she’d passed out.
When she didn’t answer, I ventured down the hallway and stopped outside a closed door that I guessed was the bathroom. It sounded like the shower was running.
“Remy. You okay?”
No answer. The water stopped, and I returned to the living room, so it didn’t look as if I’d been lurking right outside the door.
I gave it five minutes then asked the question again.
“I’m fine. I’m just…” Her voice sounded faint.
“You’re just what?”
The door opened, and she came out into the hallway, a cloud of steam billowing behind her, her face pale and her lips colorless. I grabbed her upper arms before she hit the floor and guided her to a sitting position. “Put your head between your legs.”
She did as I said and took deep breaths. We sat there for a good five minutes before she lifted her head.
“I’m better now.” The color had returned to her face, at least. “I was just trying to warm up. I thought the shower would help. And I felt gross. From the saltwater and…” She let her voice trail off and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry about all this. You should go back. I know you love surfing after a storm.”
Water dripped from the ends of her wet hair down the turquoise hoodie I’d given her for Christmas. It matched her eyes. “I’m not going to leave you like this.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You need to stop saying that. You’re not fine, Remy.” I wasn’t just talking about her head injury or the dizziness. She averted her head, knowing what I meant and finger-combed her hair then gathered it into a ponytail and secured it with the elastic on her wrist.
She leaned her head against the wall and turned her face toward me. We were sitting in the hallway, side by side, our legs kicked out in front of us.
“Your eyes look greener today,” she said. “Green apple green.”
“It must be from the scent of your shampoo.”
She laughed because that made no sense. Her stomach growled, reminding me that she’d thrown up earlier and there was no food in this apartment.
“All that talk of green apples made me hungry,” she joked.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not bad. I just have a headache.”
