cancer.
“Pissed is British for ‘drunk,’” Mer said.
“Oh,” I said. “Wel .You’re definitely that, too.”
Meanwhile, The Couple was fighting. “Where have you been?” Rashmi asked. “You said you’d be home three hours ago!”
Josh rol ed his eyes. “Out. We’ve been out. Someone had to help him—”
“And you cal that helping? He’s completely wasted. Catatonic. And you! God, you smel like car exhaust and armpits—”
“He couldn’t drink alone.”
“You were supposed to be watching out for him! What if something happened?”
“Beer. Liquor. Thatsswhat happened. Don’t be such a prude, Rash.”
“Fuck you,” Rashmi said. “Seriously, Josh. Go f**k yourself.”
He lunged, and Mer shoved him back onto my bed.The weight of his body hitting the mattress rattled St. Clair, and his head fel forward again, chin
hitting chest with another disturbing smack. Rashmi stormed out. A smal crowd had gathered outside in the hal way, and she shouted further obscenities as she fought her way through them. Mer chased behind—“Rashmi! RASHMI!”—and my door slammed shut.
And that was the moment St. Clair’s head landed between my thighs.
Breathe, Anna. Breathe.
Josh appears to be passed out. Fine. Good. One less boy for me to deal with.
I should probably get St. Clair some water. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to give drunk people? So they don’t get alcohol poisoning or something? I
ease him off my legs, and he grabs my feet. “I’l be right back,” I say. “I promise.”
He snuffles. Oh, no. He’s not going to cry, is he? Because even though it’s sweet when guys cry, I am so not prepared for this. Girl Scouts didn’t teach
me what to do with emotional y unstable drunk boys. I grab a bottle of water from my fridge and squat down. I hold up his head—the second time I’ve
touched his hair—and angle the bottle in front of his lips. “Drink.”
He shakes his head slowly. “If I drink any more, I’l puke.”
“It’s not alcohol. It’s water.” I tilt the bottle, and it spil s into his mouth and dribbles down his chin. He takes the bottle and then drops it. Water pours across my floor.
“Ohhh no,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, Anna. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” And he looks so sad that I lie down next to him. The puddle soaks into the butt of my jeans. Ack. “What happened?”
St. Clair sighs. It’s deep and exhausted. “He’s not letting me visit my mum.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“It’s what my father does, what he’s always done. It’s his way of staying in control.”
“I don’t und—”
“He’s jealous. That she loves me more than she loves him. So he’s not letting me visit her.”
My mind spins. That doesn’t make any sense, none at all. “How can he do that?Your mom is sick. She’l need chemo, she needs you there.”
“He doesn’t want me to see her until Thanksgiving break.”
“But that’s a month away! She could be—” I stop myself.The moment I finish the sentence in my head, I feel sick. But there’s no way. People my age do
not have parents who die. She’l have chemotherapy, and of course it’l work. She’l be fine. “So what are you gonna do? Fly to San Francisco anyway?”
“My father would murder me.”
“So?” I’m outraged. “You’d stil get to see her!”
“You don’t understand. My father would be very, very angry.” The deliberate way he says this sends a chil down my spine.
“But . . . wouldn’t she ask your dad to send for you? I mean, he couldn’t say no to her, could he? Not when she’s . . . sick?”
“She won’t disobey my father.”
Disobey. Like she’s a child. It’s rapidly becoming clear why St.Clair never talks about his father. Mine might be self-absorbed, but he’d never keep me
away from Mom. I feel awful. Guilty. My problems are so insignificant in comparison. I mean, my dad sent me to France. Boo-freaking-hoo.
“Anna?”
“Yeah?”
He pauses. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
But his tone is definitely not nothing. I turn to him, and his eyes are closed. His skin is pale and tired. “What?” I ask again, sitting up. St. Clair opens his eyes, noticing I’ve moved. He struggles, trying to sit up, too, and I help him.When I pul away, he clutches my hand to stop me.
“I like you,” he says.
My body is rigid.
“And I don’t mean as a friend.”
It feels like I’m swal owing my tongue. “Uh. Um. What about—?” I pul my hand away from his. The weight of her name hangs heavy and unspoken.
“It’s not right. It hasn’t been right, not since I met you.” His eyes close again, and his body sways.
He’s drunk. He’s just drunk.
Calm down, Anna. He’s drunk, and he’s going through a crisis. There is NO WAY he knows what he’s talking about right now. So what do I do? Oh my God, what am I supposed to do?
“Do you like me?” St. Clair asks. And he looks at me with those big brown eyes—which, okay, are a bit red from the drinking and maybe from some
crying—and my heart breaks.
Yes, St. Clair. I like you.