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“Were we arguing?” Ellister inquires smoothly.
“Looked like it to me.”
“Not everything is as it seems on the surface.”
“I don’t even know what the hell that means.” And because I want something to bitch about, I blurt out the other thing that’s really bothering me. “What’s up with you and Faith? Just couldn’t resist her, could you?”
Ellister narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, don’t deny it, and don’t feel bad on my account. Everyone’s attracted to her. I’m like the starter model guys go to first before they work their way up.”
“Again, you’re taking a glimpse of a situation out of context. With Faith—that’s not what it looked like.”
“Ha! Why does everyone think I can’t see what’s going on around me? I don’t need the full picture to understand context. My thoughts might get foggy sometimes, but my cognitive abilities are just fine. And this—” I sway forward, grab his wrist, and hold it up, displaying the writing on his inner forearm in sparkly purple ink. “You got all of Faith’s information.” I do a double take when I realize just how many details are scrawled on his skin. “Her address? And are those—are thoseactualcoordinates? Wow, you really wanted to be able to find her.”
Yanking his arm away, he sneers. “You know nothing.”
“I know that I never want to see you again.”
He gives me a smirk with zero warmth. “Too bad we usually don’t get what we want. Now, how about giving me a ride to my new home?”
HANNAH
It was petty of me, but I made Ellister walk back to the cabins last night. After declining his offer to help me down the steps, I sped away on my cart, leaving him in a cloud of dust as I floored it. I felt pretty good about it until I got back to my place.
By the time I slipped under my covers, I felt worse than ever. And despite being physically exhausted and emotionally wrung out, I barely slept at all.
Now I feel like I have the worst hangover of my life.
Achy and fatigued, I keep my eyes closed as I burrow under my yellow comforter.
The bright morning light coming through my slitted blinds is downright offensive. My head is pounding. My stomach is churning. The pins and needles in my leg are unusually intense.
There’s a soft knock on my door before it opens, and my mom comes in with a plate balanced on her hand and a bottle of water tucked under her arm.
“Do you need help getting to the bathroom?”
I shake my head against the pillow. “No, I don’t need to go.”
“When was the last time you went?”
“After the fundraiser, I guess,” I answer her question groggily.
“How much came out?”
She busies herself by snagging the little dinner tray leaning against the wall in the corner. Dragging it over to the bedside, she unfolds it to set up my breakfast, then she goes over to my window to fully open my blinds and let that damn daylight in.
Shielding my face, I squint. “I don’t know. Some?”
“What color was it?” With her back to me, she continues messing with the curtains.
“Mom.” Sitting up, I huff out a laugh. “I didn’t look at it.”
“That’s not very helpful.” She finally turns around, then she goes over to my nightstand to sort out my morning medications.
She’s done this every day for the past two weeks. Minus the urinary interrogation—that’s new.
I should be happy about room service, but I just feel like an invalid.
