Chapter Five

On Friday, excitement seeps through the hallways of Dekalb High. The school has a different energy with the weekend approaching, especially one with a big party planned. I waste away the minutes of English class counting the bruises on Elliott's neck. Today there are four. Two more than yesterday.

"You're hanging out with Elliott, King of STDs?" Gemma exclaims during lunch, shoving a bite of turkey sandwich into her mouth.

I made the mistake of telling her about Elliott inviting me to Alex's party, and she hasn't stopped talking about it since. I shush her. Elliott's only a few tables away from us, surrounded by a group of football players even though he doesn't play. To my relief, Harris isn't one of them. I haven't seen him since our run in on Tuesday.

"Hanging out is an overstatement," I reply. "We're in the same boxing class."

She grins. "You're sweaty and fighting each other? That's hot."

I grimace. I'd have to be blind to not find Elliott attractive, but there's no way in hell that anything would ever happen between us. He has every girl in our school hanging on his arm. Literally, there's one grabbing his bicep as Gemma speaks. I have zero interest in becoming a tribute in their boyfriend Hunger Games.

"You should go to Alex's," Gemma pleads. "Elliott told you he would be there, right?"

"Yes, and I told him I wouldn't be. Do you really think I want to get with someone who can barely spell his own name?"

"Touché."

Last year, I would have jumped at the opportunity to go. But after what happened at Elliott's house, the thought of walking into a crowded room of drunk football players makes my stomach turn. Harris will be there. He never misses a party.

If I could find the right words to tell Gemma about what happened with Harris, she would understand my hesitation. I peer over my shoulder. Students crowd my left and right. Anyone could hear us. I swallow down the truth for another time.

On our way out of the cafeteria, Gemma stops walking. "Just consider it, Rose."

I sigh. I can't fight with her all day about this.

"I'm not going."

She pouts theatrically. Gemma never hesitates to do anything at all, even with the threat of her conservative parents constantly breathing down her neck. How they haven't figured out about the parties she's been attending, I'll never understand.

"I really won't have a wingman tonight?"

So Gemma was already invited. The realization hits me harder than I expect it to, and I suddenly feel stupid for thinking I was special. Half the cafeteria was probably invited before me.

"I'm sorry, Gem."

She leaves the cafeteria without another word. I spend the rest of the day listening in on conversations about beer pong tournaments and hookups. Gemma meets me outside in our usual spot in the courtyard.

"What should I wear tonight?" she questions.

I glance at her high waisted blue jeans, pink tank top, and hoop earrings. "Why not that?"

She stares at me like I have three heads. "Hell no. Not enough cleavage. I gotta show off these killer curves." She twirls, moving her hips in a circle. I burst out laughing.

"Your mom is going to kill you."

"Actually, I told her I'm going on a date with Jeremy Toh. She'll let me wear whatever I want."

I stop walking. "Jeremy Toh? I thought he was in rehab?"

"I told her he's studying at a super prestigious boarding school. She loves it."

Elliott's convertible shoots down the empty street beside us. Gemma nudges her elbow into my side at the sound of the growling engine. I huff, crushing a patch of wildflowers with my boot.

"Nishi and I are going to grab food from Simone's. You want to come?"

Gemma's been trying to get Nishi alone for weeks now. Crashing her first unofficial date would be a betrayal. I shake my head no.

She walks me all the way to my front door, then hugs me.

"Love you," I whisper.

"Love you, too. See you later!"

She skips down the driveway. I force myself to turn away from her and drag my feet through my front door. The possibility of something bad happening to Gemma tonight makes me want to lock her inside and throw away the key.

I expect to find my father on the couch, but the living room is empty.

DAD: At work. Call me if you need anything.

I hate when the timing works out like this. Our house is creepy at night. I try to distract myself from the weird sounds in the attic by cooking dinner. My attempt at alfredo pasta tastes like cardboard. I spit out the bite in my mouth and warm up a frozen pizza instead. The microwave clock reads 7:00 p.m. The party starts in an hour.

Please, Gemma. Stay away from Harris Price.

I turn on the Leonardo DiCaprio version of Romeo and Juliet. My eyes shut against my will right before Romeo dies, but I don't get the chance to fall asleep before the piercing sound of my phone ringing sends me into cardiac arrest. I fall off the couch trying to grab it from the coffee table. Gemma's contact picture lights up the screen.

"Hello?" I pant, throat parched. I gulp down the rest of my water.

"Rose? It's Nishi."

"Hey, Nishi," I respond. "What's up?"

"Gemma is sick. It's bad."

Her words are rushed and panicked. I instantly straighten up, propping myself up against the table. My nails dig into my palm, the pain waking me up fully.

"Where are you?"

"About half a mile east of the school. You know where Crystal Springs is?"

I know the neighborhood. My mom used to attend a book club there when I was young.

"Yes," I say. "I can come over but I'm—"

"It's the third house on the right," she interrupts. "Call me when you're here."

Through the phone speaker, I can vaguely make out the sound of Gemma moaning. Rising from the floor, I snatch my father's windbreaker from the coat hanger and race through the front door. The sight of my bike in the garage porch, wheels coated in rust, stops me in my tracks. Faster than walking.

The bike makes it down my driveway without falling apart, so I decide to ride it all the way to Crystal Springs. Streetlamps guide my path down the sidewalk. I recognize a few familiar landmarks: Dekalb High School, Simone's Chinese Food, and finally a large, gated neighborhood. The security gate is propped open by a brick.

"Idiots," I say, biking through the entrance.

Music blasts from the first house. I drop my bike in the middle of the lawn, then dial Nishi back.

"I'm here," I huff. Sweat trickles from my forehead onto my neck. If not for the cardio Andre forced me to do this week, I doubt I could've made this trip without fainting.

"We're upstairs. Hurry!"

Two drunk girls stumble out of the door. I catch it before it closes, slipping inside of the smoke-filled living room. Freshmen pressed up against each other spill drinks and cigarettes across the hardwood floors. My gaze travels to the group of football players gathered around a beer pong table. Harris lurks between two of them, his long, shaggy hair pinned up in a bun. I turn around before he notices me.

Focus. You're here for Gemma.

"Excuse me," says a girl who doesn't give me a chance to move before plowing into me. I glare and push past her.

Something cold and wet brushes against the back of my arm. My heart hammers. I prepare to come face to face with Harris Price, begging my body to listen to my brain and not throw up this time, but it isn't him who greets me.

"Sorry," says a sophomore boy, as he moves the wet solo cup in his hand away from my skin.

I dash up the spiral staircase. The hallway that it leads to is coated in darkness, but I don't need my vision to hear Gemma's moans echoing from the shadows.

Bingo.

Four doors line the walls. Marijuana smoke floats out from one on the left; Gemma's groaning comes from the right. To my relief, Nishi opens the door when I knock. Her thick eyebrows are furrowed with fear. Behind her, Gemma is slumped over on the toilet. Something green and sticky peeks out from her red ponytail. She's awake, yet she barely responds to the sight of me.

Nishi locks the door after I step inside the bathroom.

I glare at her. "You let her drink this much?"

My tone is aggressive, but I don't apologize. Gemma's my best friend. My only friend.

And I wasn't there for her.

"I didn't know she took so many shots. I freaked out—"

"It's fine," I hiss. "Move."

Nishi steps out of my way, and I crash onto the cold bathroom tile next to Gemma. Her lips twist into a small, helpless smile as I place my palm on her forehead. Not feverish.

"How are you feeling?"

Gemma crinkles her nose. "Gross."

Her green dress reeks of cheap cinnamon whiskey. I rub my hand across her back.

"How many shots do you think she had?" I ask Nishi.

"I don't know. Maybe five? Seven?" Nishi's shoulders sink as she realizes the weight of her words. "I should've stopped her."

I try to remain calm. Panicking won't get us out of here. "Let's get her up."

We wrap our arms around her and pull. She makes herself a dead weight against us.

"No," Gemma moans.

Nishi frowns hopelessly, but I just roll my eyes. There's a simple way to get Gemma to do anything I want.

"If you cooperate, I'll buy you coffee for a week."

She perks up. A piece of reddish black hair falls into her face. Even in her worst moment, she's still beautiful. Nishi seems to come to the same conclusion. Her mouth waters. But Unlike Harris, her hunger is innocent, fueled by adoration rather than mindless desire.

"Two weeks," I plead with Gemma. "Pumpkin spice lattes. Anything you want."

She nods. She straightens her back so we can get a better grip on her. Nishi and I manage to keep her on her feet as we guide her up from the floor.

"I'm dizzy," Gemma whispers.

Nishi nudges the bathroom door open with her elbow. Step by step, we lead Gemma from the bathroom into the smoky hallway. A sophomore girl passes us by, shooting Gemma a sympathetic frown before making her way down the stairs.

The stairs.

There's no way in hell Gemma will make it down without falling on her face. Even if we can manage it, our only form of transportation is my bike—if someone hasn't stolen it.

"Shit," Nishi whispers, apparently coming to the same conclusion as me.

With the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins, an idea I hadn't considered before comes to mind.

"I think I can get us a ride. Stay with her."

Carefully, we lean Gemma against one of the walls to keep her from falling over. Nishi's arm remains locked across her shoulders. I start my search upstairs, peeking into the room with the smoke, but Elliott is nowhere to be found.

He'll be downstairs, where the real party is.

I muster up every ounce of courage I have, but my anxious trembling doesn't stop as I descend toward the living room. I follow the sound of shouting. In the middle of the room, a football player guzzles beer from a metal bucket. Beer drips out of his mouth and stains the Persian rug. One of the girls admiring him spots me. Maddy.

"Hey," I stammer.

She scowls, pursing her red lips. "What do you want?"

"Is Elliott here?"

She hesitates for a moment, as if deciding if she should tell me the truth. Then, she says, "Upstairs."

Elliott wasn't in the bathroom or the smokers' room, which means he must be in the room with the closed door. A thousand different nightmarish scenarios flash in my mind of what could happen if I open it—Harris waiting for me with nobody around to stop him, Elliott passed out in the corner . . .

"Thanks," I say, turning away from the crowd.

Nishi shoots me a nervous look when I return without any help. Gemma's skin is translucent, her knees twisted, but she's standing. I jog to the door at the end of the hallway and knock three times.

No answer. I knock again.

Still nothing. Behind me, Gemma whines, a pained sound that implies she's going to throw up again if we don't get her out of here quickly.

Fuck it. I open the door.

It's a closet. In the darkness, I'm able to make out the shapes of two people: Elliott and a red-haired girl. Her lips are pressed against his. She wraps one of her hands around his head, pulling him closer. They don't notice the sound of the door opening.

I cough. Elliott pulls away, jerking his head when he notices me.

"Rose?" he gawks.

The girl flashes a murderous glare in my direction. That's when I notice her lack of clothes. She crosses her arms against her bare chest, and I turn away, embarrassment heating my cheeks. I keep my gaze trained on Elliott, who, fortunately, is fully dressed.

I rush my words. "I need your help. My friend is sick. I need to get her home."

For a moment, Elliott hesitates, hands still lingering on the girl's waist as he glances between the two of us. Then, he breaks away from her. Elliott picks up the girl's shirt from the closet floor and tosses it into her hands. Her mouth drops into a surprised O.

"Don't worry, babe. We'll reschedule."

The girl shoots me a death stare. I'm being an asshole, but I really don't have another option. Silently, I mouth to her, "Sorry."

"Let's go," Elliott commands.

I don't have a second to react before he brushes past me into the hallway. The door to the closet closes behind him, leaving the shirtless girl inside it alone.

Elliott pulls out a pair of car keys from his pocket and tosses them to Nishi. She glances reluctantly between the two of us, probably trying to piece together how the hell we know each other. I wish I had a different answer than the truth.

"My car is the black BMW. Can you drive it up front?" asks Elliott.

Nishi nods, pocketing the keys before rushing down the stairs. I move to get a better grip on Gemma's waist, but Elliott stops me.

"I got her," he says. He wraps his arm around my best friend's lifeless body. "Grab her stuff."

I do. Elliott scoops Gemma up as if she weighs nothing. She lets out a small whimper at the sudden movement but doesn't struggle. I squeeze her hand as the four of us make our way down the stairs. Partygoers stare and whisper. Someone pulls out a cell phone camera, to which I stick up my middle finger.

Elliott's car is waiting in the driveway when we slip through the front door. Nishi jumps out of the driver's seat, throwing open the back door so Elliott can lay Gemma there. My bike has vanished from its spot on the lawn.

"Assholes," I grumble under my breath.

"Can you drive?" Elliott asks Nishi. His slurred words imply that he's had more than enough to drink tonight. She nods and grabs the keys.

Elliott climbs into the passenger seat and blasts the heat onto Gemma's trembling body. She must be freezing in her thin green dress. I take off my jacket and lay it across her.

I wonder out loud, "Should we go to the hospital?"

Through the rearview mirror, Elliott observes Gemma.

"We can go to my house," he decides, after a few seconds of deliberation. "If she gets any worse, we'll take her."

Considering he has more experience drinking than all of us combined, I trust his judgment. The ride back to his house is quiet; the only noise comes from Nishi occasionally asking Gemma if she's okay. Elliott rolls down his window and takes a puff of a cigarette. I consider asking him to put it out, for Gemma's sake, but this is his car, and he's the one letting us use it. I shut my mouth and peek out the window.

And then I see her.

She's gone in a moment, just the outline of a person. Her shoulders are hunched and motionless. But it's my mom's smile lit up by headlights that I recognize. My vision blurs, stomach plummeting to my feet. I pull a muscle in my neck trying to get a better look.

Nothing but darkness.

I shiver. It wasn't really her—I know it wasn't—yet she looked so real. Suddenly, this tiny car is suffocating. As soon as Nishi parks, I fling open the door. Gemma leans over me and throws up onto the driveway. Something wet hits the bottom of my shirt, but I ignore it. Her sickness is the least of my problems right now.

"Come on," Elliott whispers, guiding Gemma out of the seat.

Standing at the front door, Elliott's house makes the hair on my arms stand up. I've passed it every day since the night of the party, but the nighttime amplifies its eeriness. The upstairs windows and the front door form a taunting smile.

Elliott holds Gemma with one hand and puts out his cigarette on a brick with the other. The spot is covered in ash stains.

"Welcome home," Elliott mutters.

He twists the key into the lock and flips on the lights inside. The interior of the King mansion is as unsettling as I remember. The living room is spotless, floor clear of any solo cups or empty shot glasses. In the light, I can make out the Victorian furniture in its entirety. A grandfather clock looms over the wood fireplace. Two dark leather couches reside behind a wooden coffee table. The room is exactly what I would imagine you might find inside of a rich lawyer's home.

Elliott guides Gemma to one of the couches. She lies down. Nishi grabs a garbage can from the nearby bathroom and places it at Gemma's side. I end up in the kitchen searching for a glass for water. The kitchen cabinets are white, a stark contrast to the rest of the design of the house. The counters lack a single crumb. I grab the only plastic cup and fill it from the sink. To my annoyance, Gemma refuses to drink when I offer it to her. It takes several attempts of coaxing from both Nishi and I until she takes a sip.

"I'll walk her home once she can stand," I tell Elliott.

He blinks, confused. "She can sleep here."

"Are you sure? What about your dad?"

"He won't be home until Sunday. It's cool."

He glances between Nishi and me. "You both can crash here, too."

"Thank you," Nishi exhales, voice rich with gratitude. She ties Gemma's hair out of her face, so it won't keep falling into her mouth. "I'll stay awake with her."

Her brown eyes never leave Gemma. I shouldn't have been so harsh with her earlier.

"You okay?" I ask Gemma.

She grips the side of the metal trash can and exhales. Some of the color has returned to her cheeks. "I'm never drinking again."

We both know she'll drink again next weekend. I just hope that it's half of tonight's endeavor. Gemma rests her head against the pillow, left hand reaching out to clutch Nishi's. They're cute together. I have to tell Gemma when she's functioning again.

Surveying my T-shirt, I scowl—it's stained brown and smells like the dirty gloves at Midtown Ring.

"You want a shower?" Elliott asks.

"That would be great."

"Follow me."

I stand. He guides me away from the living room. My phone dings with a text from my dad asking about my plans.

ROSE: Sleeping at Gemma's. I'll be back tomorrow.DAD: Have fun, love you.

A wave of guilt rushes over me for lying to him, but I push it down. It's better that he doesn't know. Elliott leads me upstairs, stopping at a door on the left side of the hallway. Every step farther into the house brings back memories of last weekend. I can't stop the nervous sweat dampening my armpits. Inside the door is a bathroom. The bathroom. The one I was searching for during the night of the party. It's only steps away from Elliott's bedroom. The onslaught of frustrated thoughts in my head are so loud that I'm surprised by my lack of words. I bite my lip. A small trickle of blood drips onto my tongue, the iron thick and rich. I swallow it before Elliott sees.

He leaves, then returns moments later with a pair of purple sweatpants and a black T-shirt. The tag on the back implies they belong to a girl. I don't want to know which one.

"Thanks," I whisper.

"Towels are under the sink. You need anything else?

"I'm good."

He nods. "Cool."

And with that, Elliott leaves me alone.

The two of us never had any reason to get to know each other before. I never considered him a friend more than a neighbor, but over the last few days, he's done more for me than most people have. I owe him more than a thank you, but I decide to at least start with that tonight.

The piping hot water relaxes my strained muscles. As the bubbles run across my skin, clearing away the dirt and grime from tonight, I recognize the smell of the soap as Elliott's.

The water feels impossibly good, but I don't linger. I hop out of the shower and get dressed. The black shirt is a V-neck that does my flat chest no favors. The sweatpants are one size too big, but I tie them twice to keep the cloth from falling off my waist. My bangs drip water down my face as I leave the bathroom.

Elliott's bedroom door is propped open. The walls, a dull gray color, match the blankets on the bed. And there's that damn poster on his wall, the musician and those guitar strings mocking me. They know all about what happened here.

Elliott sits on the edge of his unmade bed with his cell phone pressed against his ear. His brows are tensed, cheeks heated with aggravation toward whoever is on the other line. He doesn't notice me pass by.

Downstairs, Nishi and Gemma watch an animated television show. Gemma relaxes on an air mattress on the ground that Elliott must have set up while I was showering.

"How are you doing?" I ask Gemma.

"I can't lie down without the room spinning. Good thing Rick and Morty is on all night." She pauses, then looks around, as if she's just now noticing we're no longer at Alex's party. "Uh, where are we, exactly?"

I laugh. This place is more like a movie set than a home. I still haven't spotted a family photo.

"Elliott King's house. He drove us here."

"That was really nice of him."

"I know," I mumble.

I still can't figure out why Elliott was so willing to help tonight, but the more I think about it, the more confused I get. Reaching into the pocket of Elliott's sweatpants, I realize my phone isn't there. I must have left it upstairs.

The door to Elliott's bedroom is closed when I walk by again. I snatch my phone from the bathroom counter and head back toward the staircase, but Elliott shouting distracts me.

"Seriously? I said five hundred! You'll get at least a thousand back."

I pause.

"I told you nobody's going to find out."

I inch closer, trying to hear better, but the bedroom door swings open before Elliott says another word. He stares down at me, blue eyes wide with shock. I may as well be holding a sign that says eavesdropper.

"Sorry—" I stammer.

He cuts me off. "Can we talk?"

His stance is rigid, his broad shoulders stiff. I talk without answering his question. The words come out in a jumbled mess.

"Thank you. For everything. I should've said that earlier."

Elliott drops his phone into his pocket. "You don't need to thank me. That's why I wanted to talk. I've been trying to apologize."

Elliott apologizing? For what?

He takes a step to the side, welcoming me into his bedroom, but I hesitate. I'm safe, yet my subconscious begs me to run far away from this space. Glancing between me and the bed, Elliott's lips part as he recalls what happened here.

"Shit. Sorry."

I can't avoid everywhere that Harris has been—the entire city of Atlanta would be off limits if I did. "It's fine," I state, stepping into the bedroom.

There's nothing in the room that would leave anyone to believe something bad went down here. The checkered rug and glass table have vanished.

Nothing broken remains—except for me.

"Harris didn't used to be this way," Elliott continues, lowering his voice so only I can hear. "I would never be friends with somebody who—"

"I know."

He takes a seat on the bed, kicking away an empty bottle of Grey Goose on the ground. I remain standing.

"Did you start boxing because of what happened with Harris?" he inquires.

There's no reason for me to lie to him. "Yes."

I have other motivations, of course. One of those being that my therapist recommended I try it to cope with my crippling anxiety, but Elliott doesn't need to know about that part.

"You're good at it, you know. Andre wouldn't be so patient with you if he didn't think so."

A major compliment coming from the boxer who commands the gym at Midtown. I know he's just trying to be nice, but I can't keep the proud smile off my face. Maybe Dr. Taylor's suggestion wasn't such a bad one.

"How long have you been boxing?" I question.

Elliott leans farther into the bed, flashing a grin that shows off his crooked white teeth.

"I started classes when I was twelve, but I had plenty of experience fighting with my brother."

Cautiously, I sit down beside Elliott, leaving at least a foot of distance between us. From this angle, I can make out the shapes of three overlapping triangles tattooed behind his ear.

"I like that," I say, pointing to the ink. "How do you have so many? Aren't you seventeen?"

"There's a guy under the bridge with a tattoo gun. He does it cheap."

I wait for Elliott to laugh, but he doesn't.

Not a joke.

"Well," I state, "That sounds like a recipe for hepatitis."

Elliott considers the idea as if he had never thought about it before. Then, he shrugs. "It hasn't happened yet."

He runs his hand through his buzzed hair, further exposing the set of triangles. When I first saw Elliott King after summer break between eighth grade and freshman year of high school, I was stunned. His long, blonde hair was shaved down to practically nothing. Tattoos littered his arms. The sight of a fourteen-year-old with ink on his body wasn't something I was accustomed to.

I wonder what his father must think.

As I'm about to get up from my spot on the bed, Elliott speaks again.

"Are you applying to any colleges?"

"A few, yeah," I say. "You?"

He shakes his head. He's the first senior I've met who isn't making college plans. I've been counting down the days until applications open, crossing my fingers I get into a school with a good creative writing program. But all those plans are on hold until I'm deemed mentally stable enough to move out.

"What do you want to do after graduation, then?" Iask, perplexed.

Elliott blinks. I can tell that he hasn't given the question much thought.

"Maybe join the army. I'm not sure they'll take me."

"I don't think they're very picky."

He leans back, folding his hands under his head, revealing the image of a dagger inked into the skin of his inner bicep. The edge of the blade is pointed in the direction of the rest of his body, as if one wrong movement could cause it to sink into his heart.

"You know, I see the way that you look at me," he says, a smirk dancing on his lips.

I pause. I wasn't trying to stare, but he's a difficult person not to stare at. Blush creeps into my cheeks.

"The way I look at you?"

"Like I'm an idiot."

"What?" I retort. "No, I don't!"

"In class, when I said I chose Fire and Ice, you totally thought I was a dumbass."

"Sorry. It wasn't intentional."

He chuckles. "It's cool. I'm not much of a school person."

There have definitely been a few times over the years where I caught Elliott cheating off of my tests, but I never stopped him. I figured if he needed help that badly, I shouldn't be the one to deny him. Elliott relaxes into the queen-sized bed, and I'm surprised by how comfortable I am beside him.

Still, I can't shake the feeling that there's something he's keeping from me.

"I should check on Gemma," I mutter.

This time, Elliott doesn't stop me from leaving. His eyes are soft in the dim bedroom light, and a fleeting thought crosses my mind of what it must be like to look further into them. I could drown in the color of the waves.

I brush it off and leave the room, shutting the door behind me.

Downstairs, Gemma and Nishi clear a spot for me on the air mattress. Gemma falls asleep after only a few minutes. Nishi and I carefully move her head from my shoulder to the pillow.

"Nishi," I whisper, "I'm sorry for how I acted earlier. This wasn't your fault."

"You don't need to apologize," she replies. "I don't know what I would've done if you weren't there."

Elliott trudges downstairs. He tiptoes when he notices Gemma sleeping, but even his gentle walk is an earthquake.

"Who's there?" Gemma croaks.

"Nobody," I reply. "Go back to sleep."

She does, grabbing Nishi's hand with hers as her breathing steadies. Elliott slides onto the couch behind us.

"What the hell are you watching?" he asks.

"It was Rick and Morty, but now . . ." I pause. "Crap. George Lopez. Why is it always him?"

Elliott chuckles. "What did George Lopez do to you?"

"Plague my childhood nightmares."

I grumble and change the channel to a nature documentary. Nishi is the next one to fall asleep. Her legs stretch across my lap.

"I'm going to need the name of the girl you were . . . with," I tell Elliott. "I think I owe her an apology."

"The red head?"

I nod.

"Don't know it."

"But you told her you'd reschedule?"

"Figure of speech," he answers.

The narrator on television drones on about beluga whales. We sink into silence, but my mind won't relax. I finally work up the courage to ask, "I didn't mean to eavesdrop when you were on the phone earlier. But is everything okay?"

Silence.

I turn around, but Elliott is already asleep.