Page 24

I have to do something. She is sitting out in the cold, crying, and I am just watching her like a weird voyeur. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I make a decision. “Vivian, I’m going to pick you up and take you inside,” I tell her.
“No,” she sobs out. I feel so helpless as she sits there and cries.
Talking things out has never been my strong suit. I’m more comfortable with action. So I reach down and do what I do best—I act. I put my hands under her legs and around her back, and as I move to stand with Vivian in my arms, she promptly covers me in vomit.
Then she is really crying. “I’m so sorry,” she says between sobs.
“Vivian, it’s okay,” I say, working hard to make my words come out gently. Because I am not mad at her. I am mad at myself for not listening to her and for making her throw up. “I’m sorry I made you sick.”
But she just turns away, with tears streaming down her face.
“How do we get in?” I ask her, and she points to a door that I feel belongs in a horror movie about an abandoned house. I kick my car door shut and shoulder easily through the doorway Vivian has pointed to.
It brings me to the bottom of a steel staircase. “Third floor,” she says softly. “I can walk.”
I ignore her and start up the two flights of stairs with her in my arms. I get to the third floor and she points to a doorway at the end of the hall. It has a snowman wreath on it—the only sign of humanity in the entire building.
As we move slowly down the hall, TVs and voices can be heard clearly despite closed doors. I get to her door and set her down so she can unlock it. Once the door is open, Vivian runs full speed inside and slams a door shut. I stand in the shabby hallway, confused until I hear her retching behind the door. I look down at the mess on my hoodie and cautiously remove it as I enter Vivian’s apartment, shutting the door and going to the sink in the kitchen area. I turn the water on and rinse off my sweatshirt, then hang it over the side of the sink.
I go to the door Vivian ran through and listen, not hearing her retching any longer. I knock lightly. “Vivian?” I say, but there is no response, which worries me, so I open the door a crack and peek in. The bathroom has a cracked window with what looks like plastic wrap taped over it, and still you can feel the cold biting through it into the room. Vivian is sitting on the floor of the tiny room with her back against the wall, her head resting on her arm over the side of the toilet. The space is minuscule and looks overcrowded with all the fixtures crammed in it. My fucking hot water tank is bigger than this entire room. God, I hate this building more by the minute.
“Vivian?” I say again, softly.
She rolls her head and looks up at me. “I’m okay,” she croaks out.
It is laughable that she even says that. Nothing about this situation is okay. Nothing about a beautiful young woman living in an apartment that is worse than a lot of crack dens is okay. Nothing about her being sick and alone in this shithole apartment is okay. Everything about this is the polar opposite of okay.
But I don’t say any of that, and I keep my face in the same neutral position it’s always in. “Do you live alone?” I ask her instead.
She shakes her head, and it makes my own stomach lurch. Does she have someone? The thought of it makes me hot with anger, but why? It isn’t like she is mine. It isn’t like we are anything to each other. She is just a classmate.
A classmate who fills my thoughts morning, noon, and night.
“When are they coming home?” I ask tensely.
Vivian clears her throat before she speaks. “My roommate is working overnight; she’ll be home in the morning,” she replies.
The answer brings me more joy than I care to admit, even to myself. But then the realization that she would be alone all night, while sick, knocks me back into reality.
“You can’t stay alone all night,” I say, letting my thoughts out.
“I’ll be okay,” Vivian says feebly. She looks wiped out. There’s a good chance she’ll just sleep it off and be fine. But what if she doesn’t and she’s alone trying to deal with it all?
“Let’s get you to bed,” I say and scoop her up before she can argue. I go to the only bedroom in the apartment and find a mattress and box spring, resting on the floor, neatly made. I set Vivian down on the side of the mattress, and without thinking I start to remove her jacket. Vivian helps the best she can, shrugging the jacket down her arms. I help her lie back on the bed, then pull off her shoes, tossing them to the side.
I leave the room as Vivian moves under the blankets and return with a cup of water, an empty glass, and some mouthwash.
“Here, rinse your mouth,” I say to Vivian, and she struggles to sit up. I put my arm behind her and hold her in position so she can clean her mouth. I take the cups from her and help her lie back down.
I go to get rid of the cups when Vivian calls out to me softly, “Declan?”
I turn back and look at her. Even sick, Vivian is gorgeous, with her silky black hair fanned out messily on her pillow. She is like a dark fantasy overheating my circuits.
“Yeah,” I answer her.
“Thank you, and I’m sorry I puked on you,” she says as she closes her eyes with a frown covering her face.