Page 3 of Fixation

HARPER

T he world is spinning around me. Or not.

Not. Definitely not.

It’s my brain that’s spinning.

The painting of sunflowers on the wall of my bedroom stays in place. The wooden frame doesn’t shift from side to side.

The sunflowers themselves…

They aren’t actually sunflowers. They’re monsters with black eyes.

They’re looking at me.

Laughing at me.

A chill runs up my spine at the vicious sound.

At how cold my bedroom is.

You’re going to die , the sunflowers mock.

I pull my blanket up to my chin, turning my head to the glass door leading to the terrace.

Green plants sit outside just beyond the glass door. I left the string lights on, so even though it’s nighttime, I can still see the plants.

They, too, are laughing at me.

My eyes pinch, blocking out the world.

These fever-induced hallucinations are too vivid.

Am I even hallucinating?

Probably.

But just in case I’m not. If my plants are going to kill me, I wish they’d get it over with.

I’ve been warned that this could happen. A year ago, when I moved out here from LA, they— they? Mom? Dad? Yes, these they —told me I could get hurt out here.

They said that Manhattan isn’t the gated neighborhood I grew up in. Begged me to always go out with my friend, Darla, on my jogs, errands, and bars. Never alone.

Bars. Ha. When exactly? Both of us are workaholics. We don’t even live in the same neighborhood. While I’m here, she lives downtown, near Wall Street.

Anyway.

I’ve been told to be careful.

I’ve been careful.

No one’s mugged or attacked me since I bought and moved into this brownstone.

Until my plants. My painting.

An unhinged laugh escapes me.

I pay for it with a cough.

Wait a minute, what was I saying?

Darla. We hardly ever talk since she’s killing herself working for some fancy hedge fund manager, and since I’ve been dedicating my life to my jewelry business.

And failing. My inspiration is?—

More coughing.

Every breath scrapes like sandpaper. My throat burns like I’ve swallowed glass.

What happened to me?

I gaze at the bedside table.

That’s an adorable piece of furniture. Like the picture frame, it’s made of solid wood and has these cute, slim legs.

And the armchair here, the couches in the living room…

So cute.

Focus. This doesn’t look good for you.

A voice from within. It sounds like my mom. Like Dad. Like my little brother, Beau.

Little. At seventeen, he’s a grown man.

I’ll always be five years older than him.

Hence, Beau Arlington will always be my little brother.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Oh God. I hate laughing with a passion. It drags up another cough and another. I think that’s it. I’m dying. Dead. Fucking gone.

I blink back tears of strain. Force down the shivers that sweep over my body again.

I should be working, not doing this. Lying in bed.

I have custom orders waiting. I just can’t seem to put together the stupid collection.

In a moment of lucidity, and with my eyes on my bedside table, I remember that I don’t have to work today.

I don’t. I’m sick. It started this morning. I coughed and coughed. My forehead went from warm to burning up.

Wait. My forehead was already warm yesterday, I think? Who knows anymore? Not me.

What I remember is I’ve been trying to power through. I figured it was just allergies.

Wrong.

I should’ve rested, except I had to work.

Then…this. I went from sneezing to fever to oh my God, I need my bed immediately in a matter of minutes.

Right before I crawled into bed and buried myself under the covers, I wrote an out-of-office message. Emailed my office-manager-turned-vice-president of Harper’s, Emersyn, who’s still taking care of the operation in LA.

She told me not to worry. The rest of my custom orders are due in four days, so I should have time to meet the deadlines.

Bless her.

Afterwards, she sent out a newsletter saying I was taking two or three days of medical leave. She also posted an announcement on my website. I texted my parents that I’d talk to them when I was better.

After this little break I’m taking from life.

I never took one. A break. Haven’t gone on vacation, either, in the last four years that I’ve been running Harper’s.

This must be serious.

What’s wrong with this room? Why is it freezing in here?

Winter officially ended, like, what? Two months ago? Sounds about right.

Then why are my teeth chattering?

Maybe if I just curled to the side, that would help. I hug my knees to my chest, hoping that I’d get warmer if I stay like this for long enough.

Nope. Nothing helps.

Not my fuzzy socks. Not the three layers of clothes I’m wearing. Leggings and two pairs of flannel pants. Two long-sleeved T-shirts and the green sweater Mom bought me last Christmas.

She said it accentuates my emerald eyes. That it brings out my red hair and makes my eyes pop.

That I look like a five-foot-two gemstone.

My fierce daughter , Mom said.

Mom…

While the plants outside keep mocking me, a depressing thought rises.

Had I been living in LA still, my family would already be here. Dad would cook me his famous chicken soup. Mom would work from home to tend to me.

But nooooooo .

I had to be here.

My business had been doing incredibly well. Money was great.

But they weren’t what I needed.

My inspiration has been suffering for a while now.

I was too comfortable and couldn’t create. And when I stopped creating, a part of me was gone. And I couldn’t get it back. See, art can’t be forced. Art can’t grow out of thin air.

I needed a change of scenery, needed to shake things up.

They’re shaking up all right. This whole room is, it feels like.

NyQuil. That should fix me. I have it here, next to the thermometer on the cute bedside table. A water bottle is next to my phone.

My phone.

Tremors rack through me as I reach my hand out from under the covers.

I’m right there…

My fingers curl…

About to grab onto the bottle and…

Lights out.

“I’m up! I’m up!” Except I’m not really up.

I’m curled into a ball under the covers.

It’s light outside, unlike before. Gray light. Maybe dawn?

Did I sleep throughout the night?

“No, you passed out.”

Oh, crap. I’m talking to myself.

I’m shaking, and it’s bad enough that my muscles ache with the effort.

My NyQuil. I have to get it.

Everything goes black and I?—

“I’m up!” And I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.

The sun rises higher in the sky. A tiny bit. Maybe I haven’t been out for long this time.

“I should call someone. Get help,” I croak, talking to myself again.

The fire inside my eyes is relentless.

But the room is freezing.

Maybe Darla would know what to do?

“Friends forever,” I whisper the promise we gave and kept to each other.

She’d come in a heartbeat. And then what would she do? Give me NyQuil?

Would it help?

Don’t think so.

This is serious.

This flu is something else. I’ve never had it this bad.

I should call an ambulance. After my business took off, I got the best insurance plan available. I’m covered for everything.

Thanks to Dad. He’s the one who pushed to have an A-lister wear my jewelry in his latest film. That move launched my career. Turned me from a small business owner to a successful CEO. A young millionaire.

Ambulance. Right.

Ugh. Calling someone, anyone, feels more complicated than ordering an Uber.

My teeth click as I mutter, “The app’s icon is right there.” It hurts, talking to myself. “It’s right there. On the screen. Easy p-p-p-peasy.”

What the hell am I saying?

I need to get to the hospital.

The phone is too far, though.

“Toooo far,” I whisper, my throat raw.

Good thing I’m not out of options, right?

My stalker is watching from somewhere in the room. Him or her. Their cameras are recording me, I’m pretty sure of that.

Over the past couple of months, something’s felt off around my home. It’s been like…like my brownstone has been violated.

I haven’t found any evidence to prove it, but…

I’ve felt it.

There are days when I’m either hot or cold in a matter of seconds. Goosebumps rake across my skin for no real reason.

Weirdly, I don’t hate it as much as I should. Haven’t hated it all this time.

They haven’t made a move to hurt me. And I’m lonely enough to…like it. Yes, I like it.

Could that be why they’re watching me? Because I’m by here by myself?

It’s not a lie. I am. Alone. And lonely.

My job is my life. Even the tasks I could easily hand off to others, I handle myself.

In addition to designing and working on custom orders, I’m very hands-on with the rest of the day-to-day operations. Marketing, finance, interviews, emails, and overseeing the small jewelry plant I have in California—I have to manage it myself. I just do.

Emersyn and I, technically. But it’s still so much work.

So, I’m constantly busy and have no time to date. Truthfully, I haven’t dated anyone since prom night. Never had sex in my life.

So yeah, while a stalker should sound dangerous, I’m still here, in one piece, unharmed— cough, cough, cough .

Maybe they could save me.

I croak, “Help.”

Moving my head is a nightmare. My eyes bounce around the room, searching for invisible cameras.

“Help. I’m—if you’re watching, I’m not doing great. I fainted.” Cough. “Twice. That I know of. And my throat. It’s sore. Please. You can come in. I’ll never tell anyone you’ve been stalking me. Just help me. Please.”

The only response I get is more laughter from the plants and the painting. More dizziness. More blurred vision.

Great.

Uber, it is.

“Uber to the rescue,” my delusional self murmurs as I reach for my phone.

I snatch it off the bedside table and under the covers.

Fuck, it’s freezing.

I got this. I got this. There’s the— No, no, I didn’t mean to open my browser, dammit. Ah, yes. Uber. The app.

Help is on the way, it says.

Well, not really. It says my driver will be here in five.

Alrighty then.

I roll out of bed and…

Thump .

“Ouch.” I rub my shoulder, then reassure myself. “The doctors will fix it too. They can fix eveeeeerything.”

The world spins for real as I crawl down the stairs. Get to the front door, where my boots stare at me.

“It’ll take forever to put you on,” I scold them.

They seem to agree while I wrangle them on my feet.

Keys and bag. They’re on the console.

High, high up there.

Well, I have to get up anyway, so I do.

Then I’m out the door on shaky legs. My house is locked.

Yippie.

My Uber is waiting outside. I stagger toward it, barely. Wrench the door open.

Collapse into the back seat.

“Hey, are you dying or something?” the lady asks after she starts driving.

She has brown eyebrows, narrowed with concern. Brown hair too.

I almost call her Mom .

I don’t.

“Been better.” I hold back a cough. Take a deep breath, or I’ll pass out. Again.

I won’t. Can’t.

“There you go.” Her eyes grow soft as she hands me a mask. Would you look at that? She’s keeping me. “We’ll get you to the hospital in no time.”

I almost cry at that, but instead, I cough.

Pulling a mask over my head while I’m shivering is a struggle.

I do it anyway. My driver doesn’t deserve to catch this monster virus or bug.

There. Done.

While she navigates through traffic, I try hard not to lose consciousness. The darkness is so soothing. Too soothing and?—

The lady who isn’t Mom opens the car door. “We’re here.”

So nice of her to carry me to the ER’s sliding doors.

“Excuse me,” she calls out over the endless chatter. “Anyone, please? This lady needs help.”

Everyone here needs help. Under the fluorescent lights, I see all of them.

Holy shitballs. When I say all of them, I mean all of them.

Dozens of people. They’re either seated or standing. Crying, shocked, or yelling. Some of them have blood on their T-shirts. One man grabs his arm close to his chest and bites his lip.

Doctors, nurses, and hospital staff in their scrubs are there, too, talking, aiding, and rolling wheelchairs.

I got here last. It’s no surprise that no one approaches me.

“Please.” My heart melts at the Uber lady’s shout. She’s going to get a million stars for this. A huge tip. “She’s already fainted at least once. She needs help. Now.”

Oops. I might black out again. Or…I would’ve blacked out.

If not for this feeling . Same feeling I’ve had at home over the last two months.

The chill. The goosebumps. My nipples peak.

My stalker is here.

Or am I hallucinating again?

“Miss.” That voice. Low and authoritative. Husky and commanding.

With what little strength I have left, I raise my head to look at him.

At the man in green scrubs who’s rushing toward us. His dark brown hair is cut short. His white undershirt hugs his lean arms.

His dark gaze. So intense and…apologetic?

What for?

“I’m a surgeon. I’ll take it from here.”

Oh, his hands are on my throat, checking me, I think. They’re warm and strong. His fingers are long. I can’t look him in the eye anymore, though. My head is droopy.

“I’ll take it from here,” he repeats, harsher this time. Resolute.

“Okay. Okay. Thank you.” The Uber lady helps me into his arms. Oh, wow. He’s incredibly strong. Comforting. I could fall asleep here. “She fainted. Looks like she has a fever. A high one.”

The doctor squeezes me before using one hand to tear the mask off my face and get my back from the driver. And thank God, he’s holding me with both arms again. It’d be terrible if I fell on the floor.

“Breathe, I have you,” he reassures me. Then to her, “She’ll be fine. You can leave now.”

Even with this terrible flu, I notice his order is strange.

Isn’t he supposed to ask if she’s family or related to me? What about my name? My HMO? He should be asking for that information.

I think so.

Or…maybe things like this happen all the time. When someone loses consciousness, their emergency contact probably shows up later to fill out their forms.

Yeah, that makes sense.

Nothing to worry about. No one will hurt me in a hospital.

How can anything— cough —bad happen to me when a doctor is carrying me? A surgeon.

He’s okay. I’m okay. I can let go.

I am letting go.

“I’ve got you, Harper.”

Wait, he knows my name? I haven’t told him.

But I feel so comfortable in his arms. It’s so nice here, that I don’t care. I let him take me away, carry me out of the waiting room.

Where to? I don’t care. He told me he had me. Despite the faint warning I can’t seem to shake, I trust him.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmurs close to my ear. “I promise you’ll be okay. Can you talk?”

Wish I could. But I’m so tired.

My eyelids close. Heart slowing.

I’m falling…falling…falling…