THE TABLE IS COVEREDin nearly everything from Sam’s fridge. I already ate half of a leftover roast chicken and two pita pockets stuffed with hummus, green peppers, and olives.
Now, I’m halfway through an apple pie from The Finicky Turtle. “Do you have any more milk?”
“You drank the two gallons I had.” He opens the fridge and rummages around, emerging with a bottle of vitamin water. “This helps.”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Do you need it? Did you get enough to eat?”
He raises a beer. “I’m good. The pizza did it for me.”
I forgot about that. Still straddling him, I’d located the phone in between the couch cushions and called in a delivery for three larges.
“Why aren’t you and Costa morbidly obese?”
“Death tripping seems to burn a lot of calories.”
I burp and wave my fork at him. “Plus, sometimes, lots of fucking happens after. Must help.” I’m pretty sure I’m still slurring a bit.
He gives me a soft smile. “There is that. You might want to slow down. Nausea is a problem.”
“Oh. Okay.” I drop my fork. “I feel a little weird still.”
“I know.” He’s not smiling anymore. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
I set my elbows on the table and drop my head in my hands. “I tried to kill Costa.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you stop me?”
“That wasn’t really you. It was the surge. You’re not meant to kill. I knew you’d feel bad about it after.”
“No, I wouldn’t have. You should have let me.”
“Stella…”
“Fine. You’re right.” I rub my eyes with my palms. I can’t bear to think about what I did with that knife, how easy it was and how good it felt. The connection I had with Costa in that moment…I wish I could erase the memory. “You never tripped him before today?”
Sam waits to answer me. “No.”
“Why not? He’s tripped you enough.”
He starts clearing the table, and I sit up.
“It should be up to the person to trip themself. Among the many things that Costa likes, tripping me—and apparently, you—is one of them. But what he’s wanted for ages is for me to kill him. As you probably noticed, there’s a certain kind of pre-trip high that you get when someone else does it.” Sam carries dishes into the kitchen and sets them on the counter before he vomits into the sink. He hears me move my chair back, but he waves me away. When he’s emptied his stomach, he splashes water on his face. “Fuck.”
“You all right?”
“No, no, I’m not all right. I’m prone to hangovers. Costa, of course, isn’t. I can’t believe I have to explain this shit to you. It never even occurred to me that Costa would trip you.”
A loud crash from the living room makes me jump, and I’m frightened that Costa is surfacing. Instead, however, it’s the coffee table that dropped from the ceiling.
“Should we try to deal with the rest of the floating stuff?” I ask.
Sam shrugs. He eyes the rest of his furniture that’s still suspended around the apartment. The sofa is about five feet off the ground, but a number of other pieces are plastered to the ceiling. We got his small dining table down, but we accidentally shattered picture frames that landed too hard. The smaller items were harder for him to control, and both of us decided to try later when we weren’t such a mess.
“I can make things float.” Sam tosses up his hands. “What the hell am I going to do with that?”
For the first time since I was tripped, I smile because I understand something. “You’ll help me float in the Maine air.”
