Thank you, gods of New Year’s.
We ski till almost 3 AM, and I refill Nate one more time just after midnight. By 1 o’clock, Alana is drinking hot cocoa underneath a blanket beside him. When I walk by, on my way to the john, I wink, and they both turn red.
Get it, Nate!
My night ends in the hall to the girls’ rooms, with Milla hugged up to my chest and her friend, Hallie, wearing Alf’s jacket.
Not a bad start to the new year. Not too bad at all.
I’m in bed with a pocket bottle of bourbon under my pillow and a popping fire in the fireplace beside me when someone knocks on my door. I roll over, not bothering to get up for some dumb shit in the hall.
The knock comes again. I look at the skylights, striped between the ceiling’s rafters. It’s still dark.
Again, the knock. It’s more insistent now, so I sit up, thinking that it might be Nate. We share a bathroom back at main Carogue, but here we each have our own.
“Who is it?” I call as I jerk on boxers.
The knock comes harder this time. I forego pants and hurry over to it.
“Nate?”
I open the door, and there is…Mr. Laurent? He’s holding a glass of what smells like liquor. He smiles when he sees me, but the smile is like the first clip of a film reel of an accident. I can almost see it slide off his face in the second right before it does.
“What’s wrong?” The words are barely whispered.
“I apologize for the odd hour.” He looks over my shoulder. “Let’s have a seat.”
I shake my head. I try to get a deep breath, but I can’t.
“What’s wrong?”
“Come.” He takes my arm and leads me over to my room’s couches. “Sit.”
I do, because my legs feel strange and heavy.
“Declan. I’m afraid I’ve got some difficult news…” He leans slightly forward, and something in my chest catches.
* * *
“Declan! Please…wake up!” I hear her crying—Siren. Something’s wrong. I can’t remember…but I have to check on her.
I pry open my eyes to find her bending over me. I feel…really fucking shitty. Fuck, dude. I want to reach up for her, but everything hurts…like my joints. I don’t know if I can.
She sees my face and bends down, kinda hugging me against her.
“You smell good.” My voice sounds weird and raspy. I don’t like how bad I’m shaking.
“Oh, Declan.” Her hand feels good on my face. “What were you dreaming?”
“I don’t know.”
She asks me something else, but I can’t track it. I can’t even keep my eyes open.
Seventeen
Finley
For the remainder of that awful day, he barely moves and rarely speaks. When he moves, he’s stiff and shaky. When he speaks, his voice is groaned or tight with pain. His face is pale and slack, his blue eyes glazed and heavy-lidded. He shivers constantly and sweats so much, I fear he’s contagious and we’ll both die with it—underground, here in the darkness.