“Um, thanks.” I pop the piece of bread in my mouth and slide the sweater over my head. Morgan grabs some bread for herself,along with what looks like half the slab of Brie, and settles back into place.
The air feels better. If she notices the scar, she doesn’t comment.
“And how aretheydoing?” she asks at last, swallowing. “Generally.” She blinks. “Collectively?”
“The guys?” For some reason, I feel myself blush just saying that phrase.The guys. “How should I know?” I answer, a bit defensively.
“How? You’re their…” She trails off, and it’s like we can both sense the absurdity of the wordgirlfriendin this context.
“You’re theirs,” she says simply. Then frowns. “Or they’re yours, I guess.” She pauses again, then nods. “Yeah.”
They’re mine. My stomach does a little flip.
She isn’t wrong, I suppose.
I tuck some hair behind my ear. “They’re fine. Or, no.” I give my head a shake. “God, what am I saying? They’re a mess. All of them. Kingston and Kai are picking at each other?—”
“Typical,” Morgan sighs.
“—and Cal’s speaking even less than usual, which hardly even seems possible. And Lanz…” I trail off.
His face in the kitchen.
Pale. Pained. Almost angry.
Just leave me alone.
“I think Lanz is sick, or something,” I finish.
Morgan’s brows draw together. “Sick how? Like, barfing sick, fever sick?—”
“No,” I say. “Not exactly. I’m not sure. Nerves, maybe? He basically fainted in the kitchen today.”
Morgan considers. “Mm. He always was a ball of anxiety.” She shrugs. “Has he tried Xanax?”
I laugh in spite of myself. “Morgan!”
“I’m just saying! Mallory swears by it.” Morgan cackles. But her grin fades when she looks back at me. “That bad, eh?”
I nod, wordless.
“You’re worried about him.”
“Yes,” I admit out loud.
Very.And I’m not sure I quite realized it until just then.
“Hm.” She pops to her feet and brushes over to the kitchenette, where she bangs open one, then two, cabinet doors, rummaging for something.
Of course. Why hadn’t I thought to ask her earlier? Morgan doesmagic.Healing stuff. She’d given me that salve for Kai, when he…
I can’t even finish the sentence. But for Kingston, too. Those tonics and things.
Of course she’ll know what to do.
“Try this.” Whatever it is, she unceremoniously chucks it at me. “Apimancy.”
I somehow manage to catch it—or stop it with my body, at least. “Ow.” I pick up the object that’s glanced from my chest to my lap: a small screwtop jar of something golden and viscous. I frown. Apimancy?Apesisbeein Latin, so… “Is this?—”
