My phone vibrated.
Justin. I couldn’t help but hate myself a little for the wave of ecstasy that I experienced when I saw he’d responded.
His text was totally bizarre. It occurred to me that perhaps he’d texted me by accident .
Sorry – was throwing up.
I frowned. What did he mean, throwing up?
What do you mean, throwing up?
Was he sick? Maybe he’d eaten something sketchy earlier in the day.
A minute passed, then two, then three, then four.
Hello? You okay? I tried again.
Again, no reply.
I sat up in bed. What was I supposed to do now?
I lied down again. There was nothing I could do. If he was sick, he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He was a fighter for God’s sake. I’d seen him getting stitched up like it was nothing. And the fact that he hadn’t texted me back didn’t mean something was wrong. He’d probably fallen asleep.
I turned my light off and closed my eyes.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
What if he was really sick? He was crazy. You couldn’t tell what kind of scrape or sketchy situation he might have gotten himself into.
But it wasn’t my concern. He wasn’t my boyfriend. I’d only known him for a few days.
Even so, I’d slept in his bed with him last night, and he’d made me feel things I’d never felt about anyone. I cared about him, even if I didn’t know what exactly that meant or what exactly our relationship was.
I got out of bed and dressed quickly, thankful Rachel wasn’t there to ask me where I was going or what I was up to. As I walked to the T, I sent one last text.
If you don’t let me know you’re okay, I’m coming over.
By the time I got on the train, he hadn’t responded.
When I got to his building, I was able to walk right in the front entrance. Great security around here, I mused.
A few moments later and I was standing in front of his apartment door. I listened for a long moment, trying to decide if I should just turn around and leave. There was no sound, like no one was home.
Maybe that’s all it was. Maybe he was out somewhere, maybe at a crazy drunken party or something, and he couldn’t hear his phone, or he just didn’t want to talk.
I knocked on the door.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
Nothing.
I was just about to leave when I heard a scuffling sound coming from the back of the apartment.
“Hello!” I called. “Justin?”
A light flicked on.
And a few moments later, a dark figure lurched to the door.
“Thank God,” I said as he opened the door. “I’m sorry I came over, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Justin took a step forward, and his face became illuminated in the glow of the dim light from the kitchen doorway.
I gasped. His cut was broken open almost completely, with only the edges of it held together, like a broken zipper.
There were angry purple bruises under both of his eyes. His lip was puffy, and there was dried blood under his nose.
“Justin,” I gasped.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just a few bumps and…” Suddenly, he staggered backwards and fell to his hands and knees. Blood was dripping from somewhere on his face and pooling on the floor beneath him.
I ran to him and tried to help him to his feet. He looked up at me. “Don’t leave me,” he said. “Lindsay, don’t leave me. I need you.”
I knelt beside him, trying to figure out what to do, and my thoughts kept tumbling around my head.
I need you, he’d said. But the thing that terrified me the most was that in that moment, I’d realized I needed him too.