“Shit.” Maeve reaches out a hand and wraps her fingers around my forearm. “Is she okay?”
“Not really,” I say.Is Jess ever really okay?I ask myself, and it feels like she can read my mind when Maeve’s face falls even more. “No, I mean, she’s in the right place. They’ve started antibiotics and they’re working on clearing her lungs. She should be fine.”
“But?”
“But she’s still really sick, you know. She’s always going to be really sick. And she’s still going through shit I wish she didn’t have to.”
Maeve nods and pulls her lips into her mouth. “Let’s go to her. Let’s go see her.”
I shake my head. “Nah, my mom just told me to stay away. She says she’s got it all under control.”
“I’m sure she does, but I can imagine you’d rather be there than here.” Maeve looks around us.
“Honestly, I’d rather be anywhere than here,” I say.
“Then let’s at least go somewhere else.” Maeve slides her hand down to lace her fingers with mine. It’s a simple touch, and yet Ifind myself squeezing her palm against mine. She smiles as I do and then I happily follow as she turns and leads me away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Maeve
“When I asked you where you wanted to go to get away from it all, this is not what I had in mind,” I say before popping another Cheeto in my mouth.
“Oh, what did you expect?” Loncey replies, a little breathless as they pull down on the metal bar in their hands again. They grunt out a number I don’t quite catch. I don’t know how long they’ve been pulling down weights on this machine that probably has a more sophisticated name than “this machine” but I couldn’t give a flying fuck what it is.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe another walk down the Strip. Or maybe we could have escaped and left the city.” I pause before continuing but after a quick mentalfuck it,I pipe up again. “Isn’t there a planetarium a little north of here?”
Loncey raises their arms quickly and the weights slam back in place with a loud metallic clunk.
“The Dale Etheridge Planetarium? How do you know about that?”
“I was being nosey on Google Maps,” I say, and it’s not a complete lie, if not the whole truth. “Have you ever been?”
They shake their head and then turn to look at me. I’m lying on what Loncey told me is a mat used for warming up or cooling down, although I am doing neither. I’m using their rolled-up hoodie as a cushion under my head and I’ve found a barbell I could barely move quite handy as a footrest. The bag of Cheetos that lies on my stomach is the only reason I’m here at all as Loncey promised me whatever I wanted from a vending machine down the corridor after they asked if they could just sweat out some of their stress in the gym.
And from the looks of it, that’s exactly what they’re doing. Perspiration glosses their forehead and until we’d started talking I’d become a little too invested in watching the beads of sweat that were snaking down the back of their neck, which is exposed thanks to them pulling their locs up in a high ponytail.
Normally I don’t like people sweating in front of me. I don’t like the smell and I find it arguably the top of many reasons why I choose not to do any exercise other than ballet, and walking to my nails, hair or brows appointments. And I definitely don’t normally become fascinated with the journey of a single bead of perspiration on another person’s body. I must be so jetlagged I’ve become delerious.
I yawn as if to confirm this for myself.
“You’re tired,” they say, helpfully offering further affirmation. “You should go back to your room.”
I shake my head. “I said I’d keep you company, and I wasn’t complaining about your chosen activity. Just a bit surprised. Aren’t there deserts near here where you can see all the stars from too?”
Loncey pulls a face at me. “You can’t see all the stars from anywhere.”
“Right. Okay. Silly me.” I poke my tongue out at them.
They swivel on the bench they’re straddling so both legs are on one side and they’re facing me.
“You can’t see any stars right now, actually. Apart from the sun,” they say. “It’s not dark yet.”
“True. But it will be soon.”
They get up and walk to another machine that also probably has a special name but oh, look, there goes another flying fuck I didn’t give about what it’s called. This time they sit in a high-backed chair and start pushing handles forward, again grunting out numbers and becoming a little breathless.
“You should probably go and get some rest,” they say, and I stare at them for a moment trying to determine if they want to get rid of me. Maybe they want to be alone. Maybe having an audience in the gym is undoing any possible stress relief. I would certainly hate it if I was ever foolish enough to start working out.
