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“I’m sorry.”
The words come in a fragmented rasp that would make anyone with an adequate amount of red blood cells flush from their roots to their ankles. The world is a nauseating slosh of bright colors. I don’t need the visual details to clock where I am, though. The pungent smell is a familiar nasal assault—cleaning chemicals, floral fragrances, my family’s disappointment. That’s the most potent one.
“Sorry,” I whisper again. The words are featherlight on my tongue. “I took my supplements, I swear…I thought I was doing better…”
It’s been a while since I was checked into the hospital. I’ll probably always be as durable as frozen glass thanks to some prick named anemia, but I haven’t had a fainting spell since I discovered the root cause of the issue last year—celiac disease. I have been doing better, especially now that I know which “gluten-free” brands don’t taste like…well, not to be crass, but dog shit seems fitting.
So why am I here?
Discomfort burns through me. The moment I reorient myself, I’m leaving this sterile bed and heading home so I can inhale some iron-rich poultry and spinach. I shouldn’t be here. I have an essay to write for English 11. An online quiz to take for US History. A house to vacuum. A brother to nag so he doesn’t lose his graduation cap like he lost his full ride to college.
Though, I blame that blunder on his abysmal excuse for a best friend.
I blink through the murky veil above, squirming with irritation. I feel like each of my brain’s commands are being relayed underwater. There’s pain from…somewhere. I feel it radiating, pulsing like an exposed nerve. Maybe I tumbled down a staircase when I fainted. That misfortune would be relatively on-brand for me.
A face comes into focus, pale with astonishment. Unfamiliar brown scruff blankets his jawline. His tan face is flecked with healing nicks, like he had a brawl with a pocketknife, and his eyes are swollen as if he’s been crying. But that can’t be—I haven’t seen my stoic eighteen-year-old brother shed tears since we were in our single digits.
“Riley?” he chokes out, sounding damp and faraway.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to faint.” My voice is mortifyingly scratchy. I concentrate intently on his expression, confusion muddling my senses. “What happened to your face? Did Aaron drag you into a fight? I told you…stop hanging out with him…”
Logan smears his eyes on his ratty T-shirt. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, cupping my face gently. “I thought I killed…”
He bites the corner of his lip so hard that blood droplets bubble up against his canine tooth.
“You have a beard,” I say. Because that’s clearly the most important thing to discuss.
“Can you hear me?” he asks, and I can’t tell if he’s ignoring me in his disorientation or if my voice is too weak to register with him. “You’ve been out for two days.”
I feel my ashen face paling further. No way. Anemic fainting only knocks me out for a few minutes—an hour at most. I blink at Logan, trying valiantly to slide the puzzle pieces together. “You have a beard,” I repeat. I’m not sure why I’m fixated on his scruff. He’s been trying to grow it out for years—how did it get to this length in a couple of days? And his arms…have they always been this bulky?
Logan rises to his feet, his chair scratching the tile floor. “I’ll get the nurse.”
The room is steadily taking shape. A vast window spans the wall, displaying an expansive view of the parking lot and distant cityscape. Golden light spills though the glass, creeping up the foot of my white cot, and several vases swarming with flowers sit on a side table to my left. Rectangular fluorescent lighting overhead pins me down like a spotlight. A muted TV displaying the US Open Golf Championship is mounted on—
Wait.
I squint at the screen. My head feels like it’s been stuffed with snow—my sluggish thoughts aren’t locking together with any coherency. They wouldn’t host this in March. Not that I’m an expert in the world’s most mind-numbingly boring sport, but Logan watches it every year in June.
Something isn’t right. My skin is prickling, and my vision is haloed, like my body decided I don’t have enough ailments and whacked me with astigmatism. When I examine the trees, fists hammer against my skull and confusion pokes holes into whatever visual stability I can scrounge together. It’s not even spring.
But the leaves are full, and the sky is summer blue.
I reach for Logan as he retreats, tears of frustration scorching my eyes. “Wait,” I plead. “Logan…was it really just a couple of days…?”
Once again, he doesn’t hear me, but that might be because someone is striding into the room. Someone who causes Logan’s face to twist with vehemence. “I told you to stay away,” he snarls.
The newcomer is lankier but taller, and he’s clad in black—from his loosely curled hair to the shaded narcissus flower tattooed behind his studded ear to his jacket and slim-fitting pants. Two contrasting hues interfere with his aesthetic. Frost-gray eyes and a vase of red roses tucked to his chest.
Normally, the sight of this smirking nuisance would make me scowl, and I’d be preparing to fling myself protectively between him and my brother. But Aaron Beckham is different, too. He’s always been annoyingly tall, but not to this extent. The tattoo is new, probably added to make him look more mysterious. His impulsivity drew my perfect, put-together brother into his orbit—the careless way he operates fascinates Logan.
Then the world is melting again, sounds tangling, sights bleeding together. Something hurts somewhere…and there’s shouting. Logan’s voice is elevated, and it’s jarring even though I can’t determine what he’s saying. Logan doesn’t yell. Especially not at Aaron Beckham.
That’s my job.
Well, yell isn’t the right word. But I give a mean glare and I scold Aaron to his face. Keeping this troublemaker out of my brother’s life has always been an uphill battle, my warnings ignored, my threats laughed at. My words didn’t sink in for Logan until he lost his golf scholarship after they were arrested for trespassing, and he finally admitted that Aaron was a negative influence and a corrupter.
