Page 88 of Dead Set on You
The room tilts.
“Catch me,” I say, feeling myself fall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWOELEVEN DAYS (AND AN ALMOST-KISS) AFTER
A drum solo is taking place inside my head—and I need it to stop.
I blink my eyes open, groaning as a ringing phone wakes me.
The pounding intensifies.
Nausea pushes into my throat.
I might be dead.
“You’re here.” Rafael’s warm voice anchors me.
I blink past the fogginess.
His face solidifies in my line of vision, his brows creasing with concern. “Thank fuck you’re here,” I think he says, but I can’t be sure because I can’t hear pastthump, thump, thumpin my head.
Grinding my teeth, I push up and force myself to sit, resting my elbows on my knees and trying really hard not to be sick. The world blurs and tilts around me until finally it settles into place.
Good news is I’m not dead.
Bad news is I’m notaliveeither.
I’m back in Rafael’s loft, my dress and shoes disappointingly the same as the first morning I woke up here, although it’s evening, judging by the waning light. Desperation—tears and all—crawls into my throat, and I bury my face in my palms, attempting to push it back and get a hold of myself.
The couch dips beneath Rafael’s weight. “Are you okay, E? What happened?” His voice is cautious. I’d meet his gaze if I weren’t one blink away from emotional combustion—and possibly passing out again.
I shrug, swallowing tears. “I’m not sure. Everything went dark and hot,” I say, throat burning with the sting of disappointment. As everything faded to black, I thought perhaps I’d get my second chance. That the prayers had worked. That our efforts were paying off. That I was being sucked back into my body so I could get back to my life.
Wishful thinking.
Rafael’s hands are in my periphery. He stretches his fingers, then balls his hands. “You … just disappeared for an hour,” he says, his voice tired. “I called the hospital, thinking that maybe you …” He trails off, and I’m still too much of a coward to look at him. “But they said everything was the same. A slight spike in temperature but nothing to worry about. All normal.” I feel his eyes on me. “Is it?”
The concern on his face might be enough to knock me out again. “Is it what?”
“Normal? Do you feel the same?” He scans me, his eyes roaming over my body like a torch that burns wherever it touches. Probably why my temperature spiked. “Evie?”
His question.
“Do I feel the same?” I repeat, pressing a shaking hand to the base of my head. The throbbing, the pain, the dizziness. The symptoms are more intense than a few days ago—I definitely don’t feel normal, or anywhere in the vicinity.
“I feel … fine.” I’m not sure why I lie. Maybe it’s the concern in his eyes—or the flicker of vulnerability. For once, I’mnot lying to win at work or bring him down. I’m lying to make him feel better.
The realization makes me bolt from the sofa, too fast.
The room spins.
I blink it away, focusing on the poster of us. It feels like years ago that we took that photo … that I hated him.
Hated. Past tense. Not present.
Oh God.
“Evie?” Rafael is beside me, so close his breath would feather my hair and caress my skin if I were physically here. The desire to figure all this out is so all-consuming I may pass out again.
