“West… You and me… we’re friends, right?” I need to hear it, need to know it.
“Best friends, man,” he says. “Forever. No matter what. Come here.” He puts an arm around my shoulders, and I slump against him, relieved.
“You should have told me about the migraines, Nate,” he says after a long moment. “I could have helped you.”
“No one can,” I whisper and close my eyes, shutting out the world, trusting him to have my back.
The cab ride home feels like one of West’s nightmares. The bumps in the road, the vibrations of the engine, the flashing lights streaking by, the smell of pine air-freshener, all threaten to send me hurling all over West again.
And Sydney, who’s also in the cab.
And Kash.
It’s weird, and mortifying. Even more so when Kash and West have to help me out of the car and into the building because I’m too dizzy to stand up straight.
Awesome.
They drag me up the stairs, and into an apartment. It takes me a moment to process that we’re not inside mine.
“Where?” I mumble.
“My room.” West guides us through the living room and through a familiar doorway. “Where I can take care of you.”
Your granddad, I want to say. Your sis. Did you ask them? Is this okay?
But just the thought of asking out loud, and even worse, the thought of crawling to my own empty bedroom exhaust the last of my reserves. I’m sat down, then laid back on the bed from which someone has thoughtfully pulled back the covers—Sydney?—and my shoes are removed.
A glass of water appears by my hand, and pills. I don’t ask where they got them, or what they are. I’d take radioactive sludge by this point if it meant the pain and dizziness might stop. My head hurts so much that the pain in my back that has plagued me all day and night has faded to the background.
Time skips and rolls, and I find myself on my side, covers pulled up to my chest, a cold compress on the back of my neck. I can barely feel the mattress I’m lying on, or my limbs. Whatever they gave me, it’s good stuff.
“West?” I croak.
“Right here.” He pats my arm. He’s sitting beside me on the bed. The curtains are drawn, and his face is a pattern of shadows, the only light coming from his phone. “You okay there?”
I think of nodding and change my mind. “Yeah.”
“You sound rusty. Want some water?”
“No.” My stomach is still twisted up. “Syd?”
“Here,” she says, and unfolds from a chair by the window, coming toward me. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like roadkill, I bet,” another male voice says, and I blink.
Kash?
He saves me the trouble of asking, coming around the bed and folding his arms over his chest.
Is this some weird dream?
“I left a note under your door saying that you’re staying here tonight,” West says. “In case your dad’s worried.”
I’d laugh if I thought my head wouldn’t explode.
“His dad isn’t home this weekend,” Kash says. “Won’t be back for days.”
And that’s a relief.