“Worse than this.” She takes a sip of water, her hand shaking so much she spills droplets onto her silver dress. “I can handle this.”
“Princess, it’s okay. You don’t have to fight through everything. You’re allowed to have some help.” For some reason, I find myself reaching out and taking her hand. Yes, I’m mad at the girl; but I can’t stand to see her like this, shaky and struggling to breathe. Her fingers are cramped up and frozen solid, and I start to slowly massage them, like I can encourage the blood back into her extremities.
She hesitates for a while, her chest heaving, staring at the pill—then gives a tiny nod. Kenta holds it up to her mouth for her, and she swallows it down with a shaky gulp of water, sagging against the wall and closing her eyes. I soon feel the muscles in her hands unclasp and loosen as her breath evens out some more.
“Good girl,” I say, my voice low. “Let’s go home.”
“Don’t call megood girl.” She shakes her head. “Still have interviews.”
Kenta kneels down in front of her. “Sweetheart, you’re sick.”
“I’m notsick.”
“You can barely stand.”
“Th-then I’ll do them sitting down. Find me a lawn chair, or something.” She pushes me off her and forces herself upright. Kenta and I watch, gobsmacked, as she totters over to the mirror, pouts at her smeared makeup, and pulls a mascara wand out of her bag. “God. I look like a fucking raccoon. I didn’t even cry,” she mutters, rubbing under her eyes.
I sit back on my haunches. “Briar, you really should go home and rest. You’re not in any state to go out there and perform.”
“I didn’t hire you to give me health advice,” she bites out. “I hired you to make me feel safe.”
Kenta and I both go still. The reprimand is pretty clear. We found her lying with her head next to a toilet, so scared she couldn’t breathe. We didn’t make her feel safe tonight.
“Briar,” Kenta says softly. “You know that your behaviour will never affect how we do our work. Just because we’re having a disagreement—”
“I don’t want to talk.” She orders. “These meds always knock me out. I have fifteen minutes b-before I’m a zombie, and I have twenty stations left to talk to. C-come on.” She marches out of the bathroom, wobbling slightly in her heels. I go to put an arm around her shoulder, to steady her, and she flinches violently away. “Please don’t touch me.”
I step back. She half-staggers over to the press line, where the camera crews are all set up, and waves to the closest journalist. “I’m ready. Come interview me,” she calls.
For a moment, the guy stares at her in shock; but he recovers smoothly, sticking his microphone in his face. “Miss Briar Saint. You organised this event tonight. Tell me, what does the subject of child homelessness mean to you?”
“I don’t think children should be homeless,” she mutters.
He blinks at her directness. “And yet you’re one of the highest-earning actresses of the year. How do you reconcile your values with your income?”
“I donate my income.”
Irritation crosses the man’s face. “You know, many people are accusing you of using charity events like these as a PR move to boost public opinion. What’s your response to such accusations?”
“Does it matter?” She asks flatly. “Money is money.” A shiver wracks through her body, and Glen puts his jacket over her slim shoulders. She pauses for a second, then turns her face into it, like she’s smelling his cologne. “Thanks,” she says to him, and he just nods, concern tightening his face.
She talks with the guy for a few minutes, then moves on to the next. And the next.
They’re not good interviews. In fact, they’re completely disastrous. Her anxiety picks back up as more and more people surround her. I see her eyes darting through the crowd, like she thinks someone is going to jump out at her. Her breathing gets choppy again—she keeps having to pause in the middle of words to gasp, and her eyes are huge and glazing over with the meds. More than once, she has to ask an interviewer to repeat a question five or six times, because she can’t focus on what they’re saying. It’s torture, watching her fall apart, over and over again, as she struggles to keep her composure.
“Jesus,” I hear a cameraman mutter behind me, as she moves on to the next crew. “This is a charity event. She’s out of her head.”
“I mean, it’ll make good headlines,” the reporter points out. “You get the bit she almost fell?”
I grit my teeth and stride up to Kenta, who’s hovering a step behind Briar, watching her intently. “They think she’s high.”
He winces, putting a hand on her arm. “Briar, I really think we should go.”
“Three more,” she mumbles.
“They think you’re on something,” I tell her flatly.
“Iamon something.”
