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“Lu, you’re kinda green.”
“I'm fine,” I insist even as I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. “I just need to sleep.”
And fresh air. Fresh air and sleep. And probably another strategic vomit.
On legs that feel like jelly, I take a couple of steps towards the emergency room doors. With each one, my body becomes heavier and heavier until it feels like I'm trudging through mud.
I'm almost outside when my vision blurs and my ears start ringing.
I think someone says my name but I'm not sure. All I know is my legs give out completely, my knees hit the floor with a dull, painful thud, and someone hooks their arms underneath my armpits before the rest of my body follows.
The last thing I think of before my world goes black?
The unopened texts from Jackson sitting in my inbox.
26
LUNA
Dehydration.
Fucking dehydration.
Not alcohol poisoning, not a spiked drink, not even an inconvenient but kind of cool broken hand. Dehydration is what took me out.
Guess when they say not to mix your meds with alcohol, they really mean it.
I'd be embarrassed if I wasn't so consumed with feeling like complete and utter shit.
The hospital didn't even admit me. I woke up in the ER, hooked up to a banana bag. Less than an hour later, they sent me on my way with nothing more than a few disapproving glances. Tail between my legs, I dragged my ass back to Owen's place to pass out because I looked like death incarnate and if my mom saw me, she'd lose her mind. After barricading myself in the spare room and peeling off my clothes, I pretty much fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow.
God knows how many hours later, a quiet voice tries to coax me awake. My brain is too melted to pinpoint it; not even hospital-grade fluids could prevent the massive hangover I feel brewing in my temples. Groaning, I roll away from who I’m assuming is Owen and shove my head under the pillow in an attempt to drown out him calling my name.
Soft laughter and warm breath tickle my bare shoulder. “Lu, wake up.”
“Fuck off,” I grumble into mattress, wincing at my croaky voice. I reach around to slap Owen away, only for my hand to get caught between two calloused ones.
“Wake up, sweetheart.”
I stiffen as the only cutesy pet name I can stand cracks through my hazy, sleepy mind and this time, it’s not Owen saying it.
Shifting towards the voice, I crack an eyelid, frowning at the unexpectedly familiar face looming over me. Wondering if I’m still plastered. “What the fuck?”
Looking about as tired as I feel, clad in a pair of crumpled sweats and an equally wrinkled hoodie, Jackson is perched on the edge of the bed. Holding my hand. Stroking my hair.
I’m hallucinating. I’m still completely, incoherently drunk, and I’m hallucinating. That’s the only explanation because Jackson is in California with his family, not in New York with me.
Forcing my bleary eyes wide open, I blink in confusion. Each time, I expect him to disappear.
He doesn't.
“What the fuck?” I repeat because they're the only words coming to mind right now. Maybe I'm still asleep. It wouldn't be the first time I've had a vivid dream about Jackson.
But then he chuckles, low and deep and very, very real, and it hits me that Jackson is here.
In New York.
In Owen's spare bedroom.
