35. Vivian

35

VIVIAN

JANUARY 3, 12:00 A.M.

When I open my eyes, everything is blurry. I blink a few times, trying to get the world back into focus, but when it does, it still doesn't make sense. I feel like I'm waking up after having too much to drink, but I'm not in my bed, or on an air mattress on Sav's floor, or any of the other places I should be after a night out.

Wait, a mattress. I am on a mattress. It squeaks under me, the sheets damp from what must be my sweat. Gross. I groan and sit up to press the heels of my hands to my eyes, holding them there until the throbbing in my head calms down a little.

When I open my eyes again, I notice the other things that don't make sense. I'm on a mattress, but this isn't a bedroom. It looks a little like the scene shop at Beaumont, where Sav and the rest of the theater kids go to paint the sets, only it's smaller and… Mardi Gras–themed?

The floor is concrete, and the lighting overhead is bright, almost like a hospital, but the room is crowded with Mardi Gras crap. Racks of sparkly, colorful costumes, towers of cardboard boxes full of who knows what. The walls are lined with framed Deus stuff: old drawings of float lineups, invitations to balls from decades ago, photos of Queens and Kings that change from old-timey to modern, even though the costumes are exactly the same. If you ignore the dirt all over the ball gown I'm still wearing, I fit right in.

The Den, I realize. This must be a storage room in the warehouse. Why did Coach bring me here?

Coach. It starts to trickle back. His car appearing out of nowhere, making me think I was safe. The water bottle. The world blurring. How could I have been so stupid? I feel around the mattress, made up with blankets like a real bed, even though it's just thrown on the floor, but I don't see my phone anywhere.

"No, no, no…" I tear off the pillowcases and shake them out. Nothing. I throw them both on the ground. "Fuck!"

"Vivian."

The other voice makes me jump, spiking my adrenaline. But it's not Coach.

I see her first in the mirror that's propped up against the opposite wall, like someone wanted to remind us just how real this is, how screwed we are. She's sitting with her back against a stack of boxes, knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on top of them.

I see her, but I don't believe it until I turn around. Even then, I'm not sure this isn't my brain all mixed up from whatever Coach gave me.

"Lily?"

As soon as I say it, I know this is real. She's here, wearing her favorite leggings and the oversized gray hoodie Wyatt let her steal months ago. She looks terrible. The space under her eyes is the color of a bruise, and her hair is unwashed, stringy around her face, but it's her. She's here, looking at me. Alive.

"Lily," I say again, rushing toward her. "Oh my god, I was so scared you were—"

She flinches as I reach out to touch her, and the look on her face stops me in my tracks. Lily shakes her head slowly, and I realize it isn't just fear in her eyes. It's rage, cold and hard.

"They told you to stop digging," she says. "You should have fucking listened."