I didn’t go into a lot of bars in America—not unless you count places like Applebee’s—so I have no idea if there’s any comparable place like this back home. But it’s sort of beautiful; every surface is gleaming, polished wood, and the round tables are surrounded by comfy-looking wingback chairs. The bar has a line of tall stools with spindly legs.
“This is us,” Jasper says, indicating a table with four chairs. We settle in, and I realize I was right—they are comfy. “Vier Biere,” he adds to the waitress when she comes to take our order.
The little Swiss town near Bleakwood doesn’t seem to lend itself to luxury, but everything around me is so shiny and pretty that I wonder if I can afford anything here. My eyes dart around as I look for some sort of menu or price list. Beck seems to notice my discomfort, and he lays a hand on my arm gently enough so that I look at him, but Jasper and Heath don’t notice.
“I’ve got you,” he says in a low whisper.
“I can—”
“I’ve got you,” he repeats firmly.
I nod. “Thanks.”
He nods back. I feel a thrill in my stomach just before his eyes pull away from mine and I inwardly have to remind myself to keep my head on straight.
But I know the moment the waitress plops four massive mugs of beer down in front of us at the bar that that isn’t exactly going to be easy.
Not tonight, anyway. Not with the way I can already tell this is headed.
Chapter Eighteen
It’s not easy at all, it turns out.
Is my head on straight? Do I have a head at all? Where am I?
My stomach certainly isn’t right. I heave and retch, and the gross sound of my own puke splashing makes me heave again.
“Just like I said. Gonna fucking get us killed,” a voice mutters as fingers gingerly push baby hairs back from my face.
“R-Rafael?” I gasp, then lean over the toilet—oh
shit, this is a toilet—and vomit some more.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he replies, sounding irritated. I bet I can guess why.
“Where—?”
He knows my question before I’ve finished asking it. “You’re in our dorm,” he says with a sigh, still gently stroking hair back from my cheeks so that I don’t get puke in it.
“You’ve asked me about a million times already.”
“Oh.” I feel terrible. I wish I didn’t have a head. “Are you okay?”
At this, he laughs, and it actually sounds pleasant. “Me? I’m fine. But you’re gonna need so much water it’s not even funny.”
“I’m too young to drink,” I lament, heaving again, but nothing comes up.
“Not here,” he tells me. “Legal drinking age for beer is sixteen. Oh—gross, don’t come away from the toilet.”
I try to sit back, but he doesn’t let me. I feel myself do another dry heave. My chest clenches.
“You should probably stay back from classes today.”
“Today?” I repeat incredulously.
“Yeah. It’s four in the morning. You’ve been like this for a few hours.”
I groan and slump sideways, ignoring Rafael’s cries of disgust and worry. The bathroom floor is cool against my cheek.