The evening chill and the weirdness of this whole thing is enough to jolt me back to life. I was dragging ass on my way here, but now, I’m kinda wired. The thought of going home is unappealing, and the last thing I want to do is repeat my previous trip to my mom’s apartment. If Rick calls me “darling” or touches my knee again, I might actually vomit on his work boots.
Yasmin lives pretty close to here, though, so I make a spur-of-the-moment decision to veer off to see what she’s up to. I send her a text on my way to let her know I’m coming.
Weirdly enough, I don’t get an instant response. That’s as strange as the whole thing at Frank’s trailer. Yasmin always,alwayshas her phone on her. It’s practically surgically attached to her hands.
Just like that, my heart starts pounding. I can’t help but think of Brandon. What if he did something insane? What if he found her? What if?—
No. I can’t think like that. I’m just gonna go by her place, make sure everything is okay, and then my paranoia and I can have a long, hard look in the mirror together. Honestly, it’s been going absolutely haywire all week long. I keep thinking I see that stupid black sedan at damn near every street corner. Now, I’m picturing Brandon doing something drastic and awful to Yas?
No más.Everything is going to be fine and dandy.
I hoof it the four blocks to Yasmin’s apartment, say hi to her doorman, and take the elevator up. When I’m on the fifth floor, I call her. Just like with Frank, the first four rings go unanswered.
And as I get closer and closer to her door…
… I hear the vibrations of the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth.
“Yas?” I call, half into the phone and half into her apartment. “Yas, you here?”
More vibrations.
Then, a click.
Then: “You have reached Yasmin Kaur. I’m out doing hot girl shit. Be a doll and leave a message, kthxbyeee!”
My heartbeat doubles.
I reach into my tote bag and fumble through all my various belongings until I find the spare key she gave me years ago. My hands are shaking so bad I can barely fit it in the lock.
“C’mon, c’mon, you stupid freaking—” I finally manage to turn the key and shove the door open.
The living room is unoccupied. Her laptop sits open on the coffee table, a half-drunk glass of wine beside it. Jewel-toned throw pillows are scattered across her velvet couch and strewn all around the floor like someone threw them in a fit of rage. Neon string lights frame her window. The coffee table is its usual disaster: fashion magazines fanned out, a chipped mug that saysBOSS BITCH, and her AirPods case covered in sparkly stickers.
Everything is perfectly, quintessentially Yasmin.
… Except Yasmin herself is nowhere to be found.
“Yas?” I call, stepping inside. “Yas, you’re freaking me out here. If you’re napping or something, I’m gonna be pissed.”
Then I hear something else: a cry from the bedroom.
“Oh my God.”
I sprint down the hallway and kick the bedroom door open with enough force to dent the opposite wall. “YASMIN, I’M HERE, I’M?—”
The words die in my throat.
Because there, in Yasmin’s bed, is Yasmin.
And Zeke.
A verynakedYasmin.
A verynakedZeke.
Very much in the middle of something that is definitelynota Brandon-related emergency.
34
