Chapter 18.
805 Words
The transition from the velvet infinite of the night to the harsh, grey reality of dawn was not a gentle one.
At some point between the last of the chemical haze and the first hint of indigo on the horizon, sleep had claimed them. They hadn't moved back to the car. Instead, they had drifted off right there on the wool blanket, two small figures dwarfed by the towering, peeling ghost of the Star-Lite screen.
Harper woke first, or rather, her body woke her.
The first thing she felt was the cold- a damp, biting dew that had settled over the blanket. The second thing she felt was the weight. It was a heavy, warm anchor across her ribs. She looked down to see Kane’s arm wrapped tightly around her, his hand tucked against her side as if, even in sleep, he was making sure she didn't drift away into the stars they had been watching. His breathing was deep and even, a steady vibration against her back.
For a heartbeat, it was perfect. It was the "special" moment she had spent months looking for with Derek, found instead in the middle of a drug-choked parking lot with a boy the world called a delinquent.
Then, the world tilted.
A violent lurch in her stomach- a combination of the mushrooms, the harder narcotics, and the relentless, creeping degradation of her own cells- sent a surge of acid up her throat.
"Kane," she tried to croak, but her voice was gone.
She wiggled, her movements frantic as she tried to disentangle herself from the wool and his grip. The movement caused Kane’s arm to slide loosely down to her waist, his eyes flickering open just as Harper lunged for the plastic bucket he had strategically placed at the edge of the blanket.
She barely made it.
The sound of her retching shattered the morning silence. It was a ugly, visceral sound- the "dying girl" reasserting her presence after a night of pretending she was a star.
Kane was upright in an instant. There was no grogginess, no "where am I?" confusion. He moved with the practiced reflex of someone used to waking up in crisis. He didn't pull away in disgust; he moved closer, his large hand reaching out to gather the tangled mess of her black hair, holding it back from her face with a firm, steady grip.
"I've got you, Brooks," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep but steady. "Just let it out. You’re alright."
When the spasms finally subsided, Harper leaned her forehead against the cool plastic rim of the bucket, her breath coming in ragged, shaky gasps. She felt small, fragile, and utterly humiliated. This was the part of the "dying girl show" she hadn't wanted him to see- the unglamorous, messy reality of a body that was failing.
Kane didn't make a big deal of it. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and produced the small silver tin. Instead of the drugs, he pulled out a single, chalky white breath mint.
"Here," he said, handing it to her. "It’ll take the edge off the taste."
"Thanks," she whispered, her eyes watering as she took the mint. She sat back on her butt, shivering as the morning wind cut through her hoodie. "I told you I was a science project."
"You're a human being who had a long night," Kane countered, standing up and offering a hand to haul her to her feet. "And human beings need grease and caffeine after a night like that. Come on. Let's get out of this graveyard."
The GTO felt like a warm cocoon compared to the damp lot. As they drove back toward the edges of civilization, the sun finally broke over the horizon, casting long, golden shadows across the dashboard. Kane pulled into a chrome-heavy diner called The Silver Skillet, a 24-hour diner that smelled of burnt toast and old bacon.
They slid into a corner booth, the red vinyl cracked and peeling. Harper felt the weight of her phone in her pocket- a phantom limb that had been silent all night. She finally pulled it out, the screen illuminating her pale face.
Mother (11:42 PM): Hope you and Maxine are having fun. Call me in the morning.
Mother (1:15 AM): Just checking in. Sleep well, Harper.
Mother (6:30 AM): Are you awake? I’m making blueberry pancakes if you want to come home early.
Then, the messages from Maxine:
Maxine (12:05 AM): I told your mom you’re crashing at my place.
Maxine (12:06 AM): Don’t make me a liar, Harp. Stay safe.
Maxine (7:00 AM): Still alive? Tell me the night went well. I need details (the non-illegal ones).
- Writer
