Page 20 of In the Net (Sin Bin Stories #5)

SEBASTIAN

M y entire head is nothing but a pulsing throb. It feels like it weighs two hundred pounds, swollen to twice its size. It also feels like there’s a railroad spike jammed right in the middle of my brain, and every time I even think about moving, a giant mallet hammers it in one inch deeper.

My eyelids must be welded together. I can’t open them. It feels like an hour passes as I tell myself I’m going to finally force them open and see just where the hell I am and what I’ve gotten myself into, but every time I try, my strength fails me utterly.

At least I’m not nauseous yet. But that’ll come. I know that’ll come the minute I sit up.

How much did I drink? And why?

Then the memories come back. Bryce.

The agony and guilt that I used the alcohol to dull tear into me.

I open my eyes and sit up in the bed I’ve found myself in. The spike in my brain gets hammered deeper, pain bursts behind my eyes, and a wave of nausea crashes over me, but all of it pales in comparison to the emotional pain corroding my chest.

When my eyes focus, they point to the bed. It looks familiar. The hotel I’m staying at. At least I found my way back to my room.

Or did I?

My head is so heavy that my neck feels like a rusty joint as I lift it. Now I can see this isn’t my room. I recognize it as Harper’s.

Then I see her. She’s slumped down in the chair by the desk, just like I was last night. Looking every bit as uncomfortable as I remember being.

More memories flood back. Me drinking myself into a stupor, the only way I could think to cope with the news I heard about Bryce.

Me stumbling back, banging on Harper’s door, because I just didn’t know where else to go.

Her letting me in. Letting me vent my guilt and self-loathing to someone who would understand the context. Lending me words of support that I don’t deserve. Taking care of me and even putting me to bed while I was an alcohol-soaked mess.

She let me in while she was still recovering from her cold, let me spew my emotions all over her, and then gave up her own bed.

She doesn’t deserve to be uncomfortable, sleeping in that cheap, crappy hotel chair all night. Looking at the clock, I see that it’s just past three in the morning. We still have a couple hours before we need to get up. She should spend those couple hours comfortable. I shouldn’t.

Even though it makes a new wave of pain explode inside my skull, I force myself up from the bed. I contend with the rolling waves of nausea as I stride over to Harper and scoop her up in my arms, still sleeping.

Fuck. She’s so warm. So soft. The backs of her legs feel so damn good against my forearm. The heft of her weight so comfortable to hold. For a second, all the pain and discomfort washes away like I’ve just swallowed the most miraculous drug known to man.

Let me emphasize that it only lasts the one second, though.

I know that none of those thoughts are any I should be having for Harper Brees. But, fuck, I’m too damn hungover. If there’s something that’s going to make me feel decent for even a second, I’m going to latch onto it. My brain is too much of a dull, throbbing block to stop me, anyway.

“Sebastian?” Her eyes still closed, she whispers my name as I approach her bed.

“Shh,” I hush. “Any noise is like a jet engine to me right now.”

A tiny, light laugh flutters from her lips. I love the sound, but it makes me wince at the same time.

“Sorry,” she says as I bend down to lay her in her bed. “That probably sounded like nails on a chalkboard to you.”

Against all odds, the side of my mouth hitches. “That’s how your laugh normally sounds.”

“Does not.”

“I’d really call it more of a cackle than a laugh, though.”

Even though talking takes as much effort as deadlifting my maximum weight right now, verbally sparring with Harper like this makes me feel normal.

Like I’m back in the world as I knew it twenty-four hours ago.

Like I’m out of this nightmare where Bryce is in the hospital, where he might not make it, where I’ll never even have the chance to make up for how I treated the guy who was like a brother to me.

“What are you doing?” Harper asks as I tug a blanket over her.

“Giving you your bed back,” I answer. “Now go to sleep.”

I think about trying to spend the rest of the night in my room. But I don’t know if I have the strength to even make it across the hallway.

And honestly? I don’t want to be alone right now.

I drop into the chair I spent last night in. When I close my eyes, ready to fall back into an uncomfortable sleep and already dreading waking up again, Harper pipes up.

“Hey, Sebastian?”

“Yeah?” I ask, not even able to open my eyes.

“I have a feeling that Bryce is going to be okay.”

I don’t know what to say to that. She has no basis for that claim. They’re just empty words, said to make someone feel better.

But then again, if there’s anyone in the world who isn’t going to sugarcoat things for me, who isn’t going to shy away from telling it to me straight, it’s this girl.

Maybe, for now, I’ll latch onto those words and try to believe them.

The worst, most exhausting, most agonizing practice session of my life had nothing on what I went through getting to the airport and going through security while this hangover is shredding my whole body.

“Sit here,” Harper says. I’ve shuffled like a zombie by her side to one of the cafés in the terminal where our flight is leaving. “I’ll get you a coffee and something to eat.”

I groan, the thought of swallowing solid food making my stomach revolt.

“You need to eat something ,” Harper says, her voice no-nonsense.

I sulk. “Fine. But if I throw up all over someone during take-off, I’m blaming it on you.”

Her eyes narrow. “If you throw up, I’m blaming it on the fact that you got absolutely hammered the night before a flight.” Her expression softens as her words remind both of us just why I got drunk the way I did. “Alright, I’ll be right back.”

I shut my eyes against the bright lights of the airport terminal and the sun shining through the glass windows. Isn’t Paris supposed to be cloudy? Of course, on the day when bright light is like torture to me, the sky decides to be perfectly clear.

There are still clouds hanging right over my head, though. A dark, heavy one that follows me everywhere I go.

Today, some of the shock has worn off from the news. I’ve adjusted to the reality of Bryce being in the ICU. It feels like there’s a pit in my stomach that will never go away, but the pain in my heart isn’t as sharp and unbearable as yesterday.

This morning, I saw that Bryce’s mom made another post. No news. Better than bad news, obviously. Especially in this case. Still a whole hell of a lot worse than good news.

I’m trying to listen to Harper. Trying not to imagine the worst. But it’s hard.

Harper comes back with two coffees, a croissant for herself, and a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich for me.

I immediately grab the coffee, but I eye the sandwich skeptically.

“Eat it,” Harper commands.

It’s like my stomach is trying to crawl up my throat, but I know it’ll be good for me. I unwrap it and force myself through the motions of chewing and swallowing.

Shit, I don’t know how I’d have gotten through the last twelve hours without Harper. Last night, when I stumbled back to her room and banged on her door, I was so desperate not to be alone with my thoughts, I don’t know what I would have done if I had to be. If she weren’t there for me to go to.

She helped me pack my stuff this morning when I could hardly see straight. Made sure I drank fluids and took some medicine, then led me through the whole trip to the airport.

Sure, I helped her when she was sick, but all I had to do was look after her while she lay in bed. Plus, it’s not like it’s her fault she got sick. It is my fault I drank myself into a stupor. It’s my fault I’m such a bad friend that my guilt drove me to do so.

“It made you feel better, didn’t it?” Harper questions tauntingly after I finish off my sandwich and wash it down with a couple mouthfuls of coffee.

I glare at her. She grins knowingly in response.

She turns to look at the big screen displaying departure information across from the café.

“Oh, our flight finally got assigned a gate,” Harper says. “We should make our way over. It’s on the other side of the terminal.”

After the sandwich, my stomach feels a little more settled when I stand up from the café table, and after the coffee, my steps feel a little more stable as I follow Harper down the long halls of the terminal.

My head is still a damn mess, though.

Suddenly, Harper stops.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. She’s staring at her phone.

She peeks up from her screen, and there’s no mistaking the relief shining in her eyes. “Sebastian, look.”

She holds her phone out to me. When I see that it’s another post from Bryce’s IG account, my heart bounces against my chest. My eyes scan the message.

For a couple beats, I feel nothing but numb disbelief.

I don’t want to let myself believe it yet. If I put my head down onto my arms in the café, and I’m dreaming right now, I don’t want to feel the crushing disappointment when I’m woken up.

But time keeps ticking by, and I know I’m awake.

It’s Bryce’s mom posting on his account again. Saying that he stabilized over the last several hours. Saying that he regained consciousness just thirty minutes ago. Saying that the doctors expect him to make a full recovery. That he’ll even be able to see visitors as soon as tomorrow.

My best friend is going to live.

The bridge of my nose burns. It’s only when wetness slides down my cheek that I realize my eyes are stinging and full of tears of relief.

I look at Harper. Her eyes are wide, a smile carved on her face.