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“You sure? We can take shifts or something,” I say, frowning.
“He’s drunk, not dying,” Shawn says dryly.
I roll my eyes.
“He’ll be fine,” Waylon says, ushering us out of the bathroom. “We’ve all been where he’s at, and we’ve all survived to drink another day.”
I slide him a flat, unimpressed look.
He waves me off. “You know what I mean. Now go check on Jeremy, Mother Hen.”
The second the words leave him, I stiffen. And I don’t miss the way his eyes shoot up to mine, widening.
Memories surge up of all the times we—him mostly—jokingly called Izzy a mother hen—a mama bear—growing up. Out of the three of us—four of us, if you count Jeremy—she was always the most…caring, for lack of a better word. Not because she was a girl—or at least, not just because she was a girl, the only one amongst us—but because of how fiercely protective she was.
Jeremy used to call her smothering.
And I suppose in a way she was. But it was never with ill intent.
She just cared…a lot. To an aggressive, pushy degree at times.
“Mas—”
I hold up a hand, and rush out tightly, “It’s okay.” My voice cracks. “It’s fine.”
Izzyizzyizzyizzy…
This time, the reminder of her isn’t welcome.
It just fucking hurts.
She’s still out there. Don’t give up now. Just don’t think about it. She’s alive.
“I…”
“Come on,” Shawn interjects, shooting Waylon an unreadable look as he waves me out of the room.
Out in the hall, I stare straight ahead, my mind racing, fracturing—unable to land on any thought other than to keep going, keep moving. Focus on what you can control.
Jeremy.
Blanket.
Garbage can.
Make sure he doesn’t choke on his vomit.
The door clicks shut softly behind me, and I turn to find Shawn eyeing me warily. “You okay?”
I nod.
“Sure about that? You’ve been acting weird all night. Hell, for weeks now. Need to talk? Work out? Have it out with the bag?”
Huffing a tired laugh, I shake my head. “Nah. Not now. Maybe later, I’ll head down if I can’t sleep.” I jack a thumb behind me. “Gonna grab J a blanket.”
I go to turn when his next words halt me.
“Be careful.”
