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I couldn’t tell if he would believe me or not. I knew I already had a reputation around town, so I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. But he just nodded as if accepting my words at face value.
“That makes sense,” he said. “And, let me guess, in return for your kindness, she sometimes let you sleep over.”
He didn’t say it in a judgmental way, but I could sense the anger in his tone.
“Don’t say it like that,” I chided gently.
“How else could you say it?”
“We were friends,” I said. “Doesn’t mean she’s responsible for my damage.”
“No, but she probably used you as a sober partner and designated driver, knowing fully well that you have a problem. And she let you go this long without getting help for it.”
“She didn’tletme do anything. I’m an adult. It’s up to me to deal with my problems.”
“And,” he continued like he didn’t hear me. “When you finally manage to get some sleep, she throws a party and invites your ex-boyfriend over, precisely at the time she knows you’re struggling the most.” His eyes met mine with firm honesty. “It’s not about her being responsible for your damage. But I think maybe she likes the fact that you’re damaged. She enjoys you that way because it makes her feel superior.”
“No, that’s not it,” I said even more firmly. He was wrong. He had to be because he was making Brenda out to be this mean, vindictive person. And she wasn’t. Brenda wasn’t a bad person. She was simply Brenda, someone who was fighting her own demons.
Someone just like me.
Ezra was quiet for a few moments, and then he shook his head. Without another word, he exited the car and came around to scoop me out of the passenger’s seat.
“Wh—what are you doing?” I asked, clutching his shoulders for dear life.
“Taking you inside,” he said.
* * *
Brenda must have pulledmy hair harder than I thought because the next morning, I had a splitting headache and nausea. I jerked awake and dashed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet bowl before the entire contents of my stomach came pouring out.
Ezra followed me, alarm in every line of his body.
“What’s wrong?” he asked worriedly.
“I don’t know. I feel like shit.” I choked as another wave of nausea hit me. “It’s probably a stomach bug.”
“I’m not sure about that.” He knelt by me, analyzing my face and running his hands over my back. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“No.” Hospitals meant money. “That’s not necessary. It must have been something I ate. I’ll just pop some antibiotics and get back in bed to sleep it off.”
Another wave of nausea cut off my sentence, and this time, I wasn’t able to hold it back. I threw up some more into the bowl. Ezra pulled my hair out of my face and held me, absorbing my violent spasms into his own body. He murmured words of comfort as he did.
But when I started dry-heaving, Ezra had enough.
“That’s it,” he stated firmly. “We’re going to the hospital.”
He drove there while keeping a tense eye on me the entire way. I could sense his worry even though he never vocalized it, and he made sure to keep a consistent pace so I didn’t get car sick.
I felt marginally better after I got on the hospital bed and had IV fluids running through me.
“It’s probably a cold,” I said again as we waited in the hospital room for the test results.
“Hmmm,” was all Ezra said, my assurances doing nothing to ease his tension. He went to stand by the window, looking out pensively.
A few minutes later, the doctor, a short, harried-looking man, came in.
“Tillie Jordan?”
