“Pants?” he asks.
I stare. “Huh?”
“Should we take off your pants?”
And this is probably the moment I’m sure I’ll die of heatstroke because no way am I dropping my pants in front of Zach Rousseau again.
I shake my head.
His worried frown etches deeper. “But you need to cool off. You’re still really pale. And your breathing is shallow.”
Is it?
I focus on my rapid breath and that’s when I feel my own quick, thready pulse.Oh, shit.
I reach for the hem of my shirt, thanking God for sports bras, but when I arch my back to pull it off, cramps seize both calves. The sound that comes out of me is like a blood-curdling yodel.
Zach’s eyed bug. “W-What is it?”
And now I’m writhing. Writhing in front of Rousseau. While flashing him my bra.
“Cramping—” The word scrapes out of me. Zach’s eyes drag down my body and land on my legs.
“Shit—”
And then he’s grabbing my sweaty feet and flexing them up toward my knees. For one mind-obliterating moment, my muscles sear as though the lactic acid inside is a fossil fuel. My warbling squeal sounds like that time my second-hand Crosstrek lost a fan belt. Russell sticks a wet nose in my face, and I don’t even care.
But—slowly, slowly—my calves unclench. And once the pain backs off, I’m panting like a sprinter.
Zach releases my feet and moves up to lean over me again. Scowling, he nods at my shirt that’s still trapped beneath my shoulders.. “We need to take that off. Let me help you.” He reaches for the fabric and I block him.
“I-I think it’s okay.”
He scoffs, his scowl turning into a Disney-villain-level glower. “Nausea. Sweating. Cramping. Dizziness. Confusion. You arenotokay, Greta.” In the last two months, I’ve seen Zach looking irritated. Arrogant. Critical. Defensive.
But I don’t think I’ve seen him full-onpissed.
“You’ve got like twenty minutes to cool off before we have to take you to the emergency room,” he shouts down at me, making me flinch into the couch cushions. “Oh, and wouldn’t you know, the closest ER isthirty minutes away.”
He flings out the words like the distance from any hospital is my fault. Ears tucked back, Russell scrambles under the coffee table. I gape at Zach, open my mouth to scream at him for being the world’s biggest asshole—
And a sob comes out instead.
Goddammit.
Zach jolts back, eyes wide, horrified. “Oh shit, Greta—”
“W-Where’s Josh?” I wail. But tears are already leaking from my eyes. I didn’t think anything could be worse than the Shark-Week-Toilet-Trauma, but it looks like it’s Heat-Stroke-Humiliation for the win.
Fuck me.
Maybe I do need to go to the emergency room because Inevercry. I mean, yes, I bawled like a baby when Aunt Tilde died, but that was different. Before that, I hadn’t cried since my first week teaching at Broussard Middle, and even then I waited until after the dismissal bell because tears in front of middle schoolers might as well be chum in the water. The only one who witnessed that breakdown was the poor janitor.
“I’m sorry, Greta. Really.” Zach’s eyebrows do this weird bunching thing I've never seen before. Like my tears are making a Celtic knot of his intestines.
Good.
“But, Greta, I’m serious. We really need to take your shirt off.”
