He pauses, something flickering across his face. “She left my room this morning. Early.”
Perfect opening. I grin. “What’d you do to make her run away? Finally reveal your terrible taste in music? Or maybe?—”
“Shut the fuck up, Titan.”
The tone stops me cold. Ghost doesn’t snap like that unless something’s actually wrong.
“What happened?” I ask, dropping the teasing.
“Nothing happened.” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “She was sick.”
My stomach drops. “Sick how?”
“Nauseous. Pale. She could barely keep her eyes open when I saw her in the kitchen earlier.” He crosses his arms. “Made her eat breakfast, but she looked miserable the whole time.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?”
“I was giving her space. She said she was fine.”
“She always says she’s fine.” I move past him toward her old room. “Where is she now?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t seen her since breakfast.”
I don’t bother responding; I just head straight for her door, leaving him behind. It’s closed. I knock once.
“Go away,” her voice calls out, muffled and tired.
“It’s me.”
“I’m resting.”
“I’m coming in anyway.”
I push open the door before she can argue. The room is dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. Bonnie lies on her bed, wearing one of my hoodies, a wet cloth draped across her forehead.
She looks terrible. Pale as paper, dark circles under her eyes, lips pressed together like she’s fighting nausea.
“Titan, seriously. I’m fine. I just need to sleep.”
“You look like death.” I close the door behind me and cross to her bed. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just tired.”
“Ghost said you were sick this morning.”
“Ghost needs to mind his own business.” She adjusts the cloth on her forehead without opening her eyes. “I’m fine. Just a stomach bug or something.”
I sit on the edge of her bed, careful not to jostle her. Up close, she looks even worse. Skin clammy, breathing shallow, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket like she’s holding on for dear life. Something’s wrong. This isn’t just a stomach bug.
“Let me at least get you some water,” I say.
“I don’t need?—”
“I’m getting you water. Deal with it.”
I stand and head into her bathroom before she can protest again. The light flickers on, harsh and bright. I turn on the tap and let the water run cold.
Her trash can sits beside the toilet, and right on top of some wadded tissues is a torn box. Pink and white packaging, half-shoved under other garbage like someone tried to hide it but didn’t quite manage.
