I hang my clothes on the shower rod to dry. Then, I pull Slate’s soft shirt over my head. I grabbed a bunch of his boxers when I packed his clothes. They’re a tad big, but they’ll get the job done of keeping my pussy covered because that deprived bitch wants nothing more than to take advantage of the broken man in the other room. God. There’s something really wrong with me for just thinking that. I can’t be that desperate for Slate, can I?
After finger combing my damp hair, I take one last look in the mirror and head into the bedroom to check on Slate.
He’s sitting on the bed in nothing but a pair of boxers with his arms crossed over his naked chest and a small trashcan positioned between his open legs. I hurry over to him and sit down on the bed. “Did you throw up again?” I touch his shoulder. He’s shivering. He doesn’t respond. “Slate, you’re freezing.” I pull the covers back. “Come on, get in the bed.” I pat the mattress, and without a word, he lays down. I crawl in, pull the covers up over us both, and wrap my body around his shuddering one. I’m convinced that whatever drug he did take, it couldn’t have any opiates in it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t still be puking and going through withdrawals.
I lay there, stroking him and hushing him. It takes about a half an hour, but he finally relaxes beneath my hold. Lying in the quiet darkness, I remember when he did this very same thing for me. It was the night Jamison died.
I’ll never forget that night. I was at the school. Jamison was supposed to pick me up, and I kept calling him. I did it like five times. After about an hour, my gym teacher offered to give me a ride home, and when Jamison didn’t answer my last three calls, I took it. I came home to a dark house. I tried calling everyone in my family, but when I couldn’t get anyone, I made myself a sandwich and waited on the couch watching TV. My parents came through the door with my older sister, Megan, following behind. I could tell she’d been crying before she went right up to her room. I thought she was in trouble or something. I’ll never forget my mother’s face, never. She tried but couldn’t talk, and she ended up walking away. My dad was the one who explained what happened to Jamison and then he left me, too. In shock, I went up to my room, sat down on my bed, and when reality struck, I began to cry. I couldn’t stop. It went on for an hour. No one checked on me, no one consoled me. That was when I heard a knock on my bedroom window. It was Slate. He opened the window and crawled inside. He must have heard about Jamison. He didn’t say anything. He came right over and wrapped his arms tightly around me. He stayed with me in my bed. He held me all through the night.
The next morning was when he told me the truth about his parents; that they didn’t just die, but that someone murdered them in their bed. After the man shot his parents, he then killed himself. They never discovered why he did it. I think he told me about it to let me know sometimes bad stuff happens, but it was different for me. Jamison’s death was my fault, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.
CHAPTER NINE
Just about to drift off to sleep, I hear Slate’s breaths quicken.
“No,” he whispers as his body tenses beneath my hold. “No, Grams!”
Oh, no! Is he hallucinating again? I lean over his trembling body and gently brush my hand against his cool, clammy face. “Slate. It’s okay, baby. I’m right here.”
He throws the covers off and gets out of the bed. “No, Grams.” He turns and faces me. “I can’t do it,” he breathlessly says, now looming largely over me, yet still sounding so young and scared.
“Can’t do what?”
“Go to the hospital,” he says. “You go. You tell Joey I’m sorry.” He paces the room. “No, I won’t do it.” He shakes his head as though I’m talking to him. “No!” He comes back over to the bed, kneels down, and leans his body across the mattress. “I can’t do it. Please don’t make me do it.”
I reach up and touch his cheek. He’s so cold. “Shh...” I try to calm him while warming his cool, sweaty face with the touch of my hand.
“Is he gonna be okay?” He gazes at me, anxiously waiting for an answer.
I stare back up at him. Shadows cast all over his distraught face, and even through the darkness, I clearly see the guilt shimmering in his eyes. “Yes.” I swallow down my apprehension. “He’s going to be fine, Slate.”
“I swear I didn’t mean to hurt him like that,” he quietly says, lowering his head. “I was mad. He made me so mad.”
“It’s okay.” I stroke his hand, uncertain as to what he’s speaking of. I try hard to think back to our childhood, but I got nothing. He’s never hurt anyone that I can remember, and I don’t recall any Joey, either. But he’s remorseful. I hear the desperation in his voice. See the shame in his eyes.