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I pull my t-shirt off, wiping up the mess on my stomach with it before I fumble, pulling up my pants. There’s a spare t-shirt on the chair in the corner of the room, so I snatch it up, tugging it over my head as I trip over my feet and race after her.
I’ve seriously fucked up.
TWENTY-SIX
Savannah
NINE YEARS AGO
The sound ofCome & Get Itby Selena Gomez blares out of my headphones as I shimmy my hips down the hallway toward the kitchen. I’ve had the song on repeat for the last week or so. There’s a group of us at college that are learning it for a performance we’ve been assigned.
I stop on the threshold of the kitchen and roll my body, going over the choreography. It’s kinda givingMean Girls’Winter Talent Show vibes and, as much as I love the film, I don’t want to be part of a real life version.
When I miss a step, I rewind the song and go over the movements again. It’s becoming tedious—listening to a song and going over the same dance moves again and again—but it’s all part of being a performer. And this has been my dream for as long as I can remember.
It would help if Jenny stopped changing the steps every five minutes.
My stomach growls, reminding me of why I’ve ventured downstairs.Food.
As I round the counter and take a step toward the refrigerator, there’s a loud banging that’s definitely not part of the song still blasting in my ears. I pull my earbuds out, certain I’m hearing things. But it sounds again, urgent and thunderous.
I’m home alone and should really ignore it. Right?
Realistically, it’s the middle of the day. Who’s going to be coming to murder or kidnap me? Putting my earbuds on the counter, I move through the kitchen, into the hallway. My steps are quiet and hesitant as I creep toward the door.
Looking through the window next to the door, my gaze meets Noah’s. A pained expression on his face as he clutches at his stomach. As I hurry to open the door, any worry about murderers and kidnappers is replaced with a concern for him.
I pull open the door and he sags against the doorjamb, asking through gritted teeth, “Is Jack home?”
“No, he’s running an errand for Mama.”
Noah nods, pushing away from the frame. His fingers tighten on the wood as he grimaces. I rush forward, my arms wrapping around his waist as I help him into the house.
“Noah? What’s wrong?” I ask, worry evident in my tone.
Breathlessly, he replies, “I need to go to urgent care, Van. Something’s wrong.”
My chest tightens, and I suck in deep breaths.
No.
No, no, no.
This isn’t happening.
Please tell me this isn’t happening.
I don’t have a car. I’ve been using Jack’s while he’s been away at college. And I don’t know when he or my parents are going to be home.
Noah collapses onto the couch as I pace in front of him, trying to figure out a plan. Out of the corner of my eye, I sneak glances at him. His normally vibrant skin is pale and coated in a sheen of sweat. A hand rests on his abdomen, his eyes are closed and his brow is tugged together, forming a groove.
I drop to my knees beside him as my eyes burn with unshed tears. All of the feelings I’ve had for him over the years rush to the surface, threatening to drown me in a panic. Picking up his hand, I hold it in mine, his skin far too warm and slightly clammy.
Noah’s eyes flick open at my touch. His gaze is unfocused as he blinks at me. A soft, pained smile pulls at his lips before he whispers, “Angel.”
He must be delirious. Whatever is causing him to be this sick is obviously impacting on his reality. I need to be strong for him and figure out a plan to get him the medical help he needs.
Noah grimaces in pain, squeezing my hand hard. I hate seeing him like this. My throat thickens and I swallow around the lump that forms.
