38. Harvey

38

HARVEY

She's been on and off the last forty or so hours, bouncing back and forth between the shower and the floor. Nia's set up camp in the bathroom and the bedroom, unsure where she feels more comfortable. I found the rest of her shit, not hesitating for a minute before dumping it down the toilet.

Poor fish.

I've called into work the last two days, and now it's finally my day off. Freddy is frustrated, but he's known me long enough to understand something is up. I'm thankful to have people around me I can trust to lean on when shit hits the fan. Job security is not a worry for me.

WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?

Mo's text is a reminder that the very thing which once consumed my life, I'm now seeming to run away from. Of course Nia took precedence over the bout when her life was at stake. Of course I've been blowing off the other skaters, unable to answer their questions or explain what's happening.

None of it matters right now.

I'll miss practice again today while we get through the worst of her withdrawal. I've prepared for it, ordering from a nearby grocery store that delivers so I could have what she'd need on hand when the time comes for it.

YOU'RE brEAKING CONTRACT AND SCOTT IS PISSED YOU'RE IGNORING HIM. ARE YOU SHOWING UP TONIGHT?

Ignoring him is a blanket statement. I'm flat out pretending the man doesn't exist anymore.

The sound of her dry heaving in the tub breaks me away from my phone and, once again, I have a new excuse to not respond to Morgan. I want to give her the privacy I know she wants, but I can't risk not being there if she needs me. I only run the bar of soap over her slightly, just enough to clean a little without overwhelming her senses.

Using the spray attachment, I rinse her off before I lift her out. I don't bother with a towel; she'll be shivering and sweating regardless. Instead, I just drape her over me and take her back to the room. Pulling at the hem of my shirt, I begin to lift it over my head to give to her to wear, but her mumbling stops me.

It's impossible to ignore the violence of her teeth chattering as she tries to talk, still clutching her knees to her chest as she sits on the bed. "No clothes." She shakes her head before she drops, still in the fetal position. I don't know whether to cover her or turn the fan on. I don't know how to help.

She's severely dehydrated though, and if that's all I can do, I'll do it well. Back in the kitchen, I pour the grape flavored electrolytes into a plastic cup and fill it with ice, breaking through the clumps with a glass straw as I push it all the way in. I don't find her much different from how I left her—same fetal position, just a little more still now. Her body tightens, muscles clenching in discomfort, the noises coming from her heart-wrenching and pathetic all at once.

"Can I sit you up?" I ask, but I don't let her respond. I just move her myself, a little limp doll in my arms with her head hanging low.

Climbing onto the bed, I position behind her, my back to the headboard as I pull her into me and hold her up. "Take a sip." I grab the cup off the nightstand and bring the straw to her lips. A loud gulp tells me to pull it away, but she lets out a pained groan like she wants more.

"I know, I know, baby." I kiss the side of her head, knowing she's likely parched, setting the glass back down while she whines for it. "Little sips for now, until your stomach can handle more."

We spend the next few hours doing the same dance, and she throws up until I'm afraid she might actually die. I rehydrate her and give her some Dramamine to calm her stomach and keep some Gatorade down. The medicine makes her sleepy, which is great because I'm able to convince her to lay down and it makes her tame. I'll take the sleepy version over the asshole, pre-exorcist Regan MacNeil that comes out when she wants to give up.

The girl can get mean, and she knows just where to hit to make it hurt.

I don't blame her, and I'm trying to look past it. The only thing it tells me is that someone taught her that pushing others away to see if they come back was the only way to guarantee they love you.

I'll show her that I can love her regardless.

My phone is vibrating nonstop, and I'm not sure how much longer I can ignore it. It feels like the entire team is pissed at me, but if there's one thing I'm certain of, one thing I'm dead clear about, it's that it will take the two of us to fill the space that Lonnie once did.

Even if we don't fill it exactly the same way they did.

I need her. The team needs her.

My doorbell rings.

Fuck.

I'm wrapped in panic, my first thought is that this invasive snake of a man would have the audacity to intrude on my boundaries, come to my home, to discuss something as menial as business. When I open the door, though, it's DreadPool at the door with her derby-wife, D-Stroya.

Or should I say ex-derby-wife now that D's retired?

"Double Ds," I say flatly, looking at Dread first. "Shouldn't you be at practice?" The words are dripping with annoyance as I direct my next question to Deandra. "Shouldn't you be at the boutique?"

"I sent out the bat signal," Dread says, walking through the door and pushing past me. "What the fuck is going on with the two of you?"

She's looking around for Nia, but this isn't my story to tell, and I'm set on protecting her privacy. I'm about to spin whatever lie comes out first, except Nia's dry heaving is loud, and Deandra is too smart and stubborn to be sold on my bullshit.

She raises a single suspicious eyebrow and makes her way toward the noise. I grab her arm to keep her from going, but she yanks away from me, and I can't stop her. D opens the door, her expression falling flat when she sees what's on the other side. She looks back at me, then at Dread, still clueless by the front door.

"Dread, take Harvey to Skateland." Her voice is commanding, like she can't help but slip into mom mode.

"Wait, what's going on?" Dread takes a step forward, but I stop them, my arm extended to keep them from moving.

"Go, Jade." She uses Dread's government name, such a rare occasion that it should be time stamped and logged.

Dread doesn't miss a beat, nudging their forehead toward the door, as if I'm even being given an option here. I look back at my friend, the one I trust the most. She mouths the word "go" once again, but this time, it's directed at me.

I know I can depend on her. I've never had a reason not to.

Nodding, I follow DreadPool out the door.