“Bea. It’s Rett. Can you open the door, sweetheart?”
Still nothing.
Unwilling to take no for an answer, I begin hammering on her door, ensuring it’s loud enough to be heard over the drum and bass oozing through the walls.
The longer I stand there, the tighter my teeth clench, and the more my muscles tense. At no point is there a break in the music.
“Beatrice,” I bellow. “Please. Open the door, sweetheart.”
I stand there knocking for so long that I figure that she’s not here.
Pulling my cell from my pocket, I check our message thread, but it’s still unread.
Hitting call, I lift my cell to my ear and then press the other to the door.
The second I hear the faint ring, my heart jumps into my throat. I keep my cell pinned to my ear with my shoulder as I start knocking again.
“I swear to God, Bea, if you don’t open this door, I’m going to break it down,” I warn. “I don’t give a fuck if?—”
A click on the other side of the door makes my words falter. The sound of locks disengaging hits my ears before, finally, it opens an inch.
Bea doesn’t say anything, nor does she open the door any wider.
Lifting my hand to the old, tattered paintwork, I push it open and step inside.
“Bea, what—” My words die when I finally find her hunched against the wall with her arms around her middle. “Fuck, sweetheart.”
She takes a deep breath before holding her hand up to stop me before she spins on her heels and races down the hallway.
The sound of her heaving rips through the air, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve slammed her front door and I’m chasing after her.
Not taking a second to consider my actions, I step up to her where she’s curled over the toilet, and I gather up her hair, holding it in one hand while the other gently rubs her back.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”
“No,” she whimpers weakly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I swear, someone wraps something around my chest and pulls it tight.
“But I am, and I’m going to take care of you.”
“No,” she cries again, but it’s barely a whisper this time before she retches again.
Dropping to my knees, I stay there right beside her while she continues to heave. I feel utterly useless as I hold her hair and rub her back, but what else can I do?
Eventually, she places her arm on the toilet seat and rests her head against it.
I remain quiet, waiting for her to say or do something. I’m so far out of my depth here, I have no idea what to do. And while I’m using both my hands, I can’t message anyone for help.
Not that I’d know who to message. The only woman I know who’s had a baby is my mom, and I still haven’t told them about this plot twist.
So instead, I just keep doing what I’m doing, ignoring the sweat that trickles down my back from how hot it is in here, or the way the floor tiles hurt my knees. Neither of those are important right now.
It takes long minutes, but eventually, Bea twists her legs beneath her before resting back against the wall.
“I’m okay,” she says weakly as she wipes the back of her hand across her forehead.
“It’s really fucking hot in here,” I say, dropping to my ass in front of her just in case she needs me again.
