“Try it.” I look down at the milk. Does she think I’ve never had it? “Some things in life you just can’t pass up. Chocolate milk is one of them.”
I look at her and I see a sadness in her eyes. I don’t know if it’s because I’m an asshole and I hurt her feelings or because some old memory is triggered, but I’m drinking because I’m hoping it will take her sadness away. When I drain half of her glass without realizing it, I finally understand her answer. And I don’t know why in the hell I ever passed it up.
We’ve eaten and are now just staring across the table at each other when I finally address the big-ass elephant in the room. “About this morning,” I say, hoping she will take the conversation from there. I watch her face flush and I wonder if she had already forgotten about nearly dying this morning. “Before that.” Her cheeks darken further and she drops her head.
“What about it?” She is way too nonchalant.
“You could have been killed, Saylor.” My emphasis on the word kill does little to scare her.
“But I wasn’t.” I stare at her, wondering if I should lean over and shake her. Does she not realize the danger she is in as long as she is with me? “I was scared. Hell, I was terrified. But for some reason, it was kind of exciting.”
I watch her eyes grow at the memory and it makes me want to hit something. I don’t know what I’m more pissed at. Her for being so fearless, or me at being so proud that she is an adrenaline junkie—just like me.
“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” I say, more to myself than to her. She snaps her head up, then throws her straw at me. I’m starting to think she’s serious, when she smiles.
“I prefer the term ‘fucked up.’” She smiles wider and I just shake my head. I turn away from her and can’t help but smirk. Saylor Samson may very well be fucked up. But she’s my kind of fucked up, and I wouldn’t have her any other way.
8
WE’RE IN COLORADO, it’s four in the morning, and Saylor is not in bed. I’m scanning the room, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, trying to find her. She is not in my bed, not in the other bed, and not sitting at the table. But the bathroom door is shut and I know it was open when I went to sleep. I should wait five minutes, figuring she is probably just pissing, but only two pass before I am on my feet. I knock on the door, but there is no answer. I try again and still, no answer. The door is unlocked, and when I push it, something is lying against it. I feel myself panicking. I know it’s her.
“Saylor!” I yell, beating on the door like a maniac, because I am one. Because I don’t know what the fuck is wrong.
I push against the door gently, until there is enough room for me to stick my head in. And there she is. Curled in a ball on the floor, in the dark with her hands over her ears. I push further, watching her tiny, still body slide across the tile, and finally there is enough room for me to walk in. I’m on my knees in front of her and now that I’m here, I don’t know what the fuck to do.
“Please don’t yell,” she whispers, and it is a plea that is barely audible.
“What’s wrong?” I try to whisper, but my heart is racing, along with my mind and adrenaline, so my voice is harsh and way above a whisper. I see her flinch, and I swear I’ll cut my fucking tongue out if I speak too loud again.
I put my hand on her shoulder and bring my face closer to hers. Her breathing is steady, like she has been asleep. I know the motel ain’t the Roosevelt, but the beds aren’t that uncomfortable. I would prefer them over the floor. And then I smell it. The sickening sweet and sour odor of vomit, and I still. “My head. It hurts. I need my medicine.”
I reluctantly leave her and sort through the shit on the counter to try and find some Tylenol. When I grab Saylor’s bag, what I find is a prescription for Imitrex. I ignore the fact that Saylor has an issue with migraines that is severe enough that she has to take prescription meds, and return to her with water and the pill bottle.
“How many?” I whisper successfully.
“Just one.” I help her sit up and place the pill on her tongue then lift the glass to her lips. When she is finished, I hold her in my arms, allowing all of her weight to be on me. I will sit like this for the rest of the day, as long as she is comfortable and in my arms.
“Will you help me back to bed?” I gather her in my arms and carry her back to our bed, but when I try to lay her down she clings tighter. So, I lay on my back and put her on top of me. Her head is on my chest, her hair in my face, and I’m rubbing her back because it seems like that’s what I’m supposed to do.
“Thank you, Dirk,” she says to me and when she speaks my name, a greedy part of me thanks her aching head for giving me this moment to take care of her. I should say something. Good night and sweet dreams don’t seem appropriate, but since I’m enjoying her need for me much more than I should, I reward her with that word of endearment that is growing on me.
“Anytime, baby.”