I watched as Sylvie retrieved a box from an upper shelf in her bedroom and motioned for me to follow her. Even as I walked after her, I knew I didn’t want to go through with the test because I feared its outcome. Then again, if I didn’t find out, the fear of not knowing would always be greater, nagging at the back of my mind. Metaphorical dark clouds descended upon me as soon as I joined Sylvie in the bathroom. For some reason, it was almost as bad as peeing on a pregnancy test. With each passing second, I grew more anxious, and finally it was time to evaluate the results.
“Here you go,” Sylvie said.
With a flick of her hand, I had my answer. We both stared at the paper in shock. All substances appeared to be negative, except one.
What the hell!
“You’re positive for GHP,” she whispered.
“Now would be a great time to shoot me,” I murmured. Sylvie opened her mouth to protest or lecture me, but I held up my hand to stop her. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m sorry,” Sylvie said slowly.
“Don’t be.” I looked at her grimly, my mind strangely devoid of thoughts. I should have been shocked, fuming mad about the results, anything but—cold and composed.
Someone had spiked my drink, and it seemed that someone was Gina, for whatever reason. The comprehension stung, but it didn’t register. Instead, something else seemed to take center spot in my mind. The knowledge that I wasn’t to blame for what had happened the previous night didn’t ease the guilt of having slept with Jett. Perhaps my foggy mind had failed to recognize him and I had mistaken the entire sordid encounter for a dream, but as sure as hell, Jett had been lingering in my memories the whole time. I wanted him, and he was the one I would always want, the choice I would always make, no matter how bad for me.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s not your fault, Brooke,” Sylvie whispered.
I shook my head, because she didn’t understand. It was my fault, and I had no one else to blame. “I could have chosen any man. Why him?” I turned away to hide the telltale moisture in my eyes, but I could feel Sylvie’s intense gaze burning a hole in my back, and her thoughts and anger were almost palpable in the air.
“Oh, sweetie, come here.” She enveloped me in a hug as tears began to trickle down my face again.
In spite of my constant assurance that I was okay, Sylvie called in sick at work so she could stay with me. She made breakfast for us, consisting of her usual black coffee and toast, then cleared out a box of old movies for us to watch. For the first time in my life, she even offered to cook us Chinese.
I laughed, until her offended expression told me she was being serious.
“We’d better use them before they expire,” she said, standing in the kitchen with a brand new apron tied around her narrow waist. Scattered across the table were the contents of a gift box consisting of a cooking set for beginners, complete with Chinese ingredients. She had received it last Christmas from an aunt and had stashed it away in the back of a cupboard, along with all the other clutter she didn’t need. At that time, she had claimed the gift was ridiculous. Now, she seemed hell-bent on giving it a try.
I lifted the recipe book and flicked through the first few pages. It was the smallest cookbook I had ever seen, barely bigger than my palm.
“This is it.” Sylvie pointed to a page.
Doubting the sanity of her idea, I scanned the recipe and was about to express my concern, when Sylvie opened a packet of black, shriveled fungi. I pinched my nose at the pungent smell: a noxious mixture of old cheese, stale beer, and wasted onions and garlic. “You sure you want to do this?” I asked, even though I knew she wasn’t; I could tell from the darting eye movement and the nervousness reflected in her expression. Like me, Sylvie was scared of cooking. “I mean, I appreciate the effort, but we could always just order in.” I made it sound nonchalant, as though it didn’t matter to me either way, even though I was almost ready to beg her to throw away the smelly stuff and leave the cooking to people who knew what they were doing.
“No.” She shook her head with the kind of determination I had learned to fear from her. “I want to cook for you, to do something nice. Anything that makes you feel better, you know?”
My mouth went dry. Usually, when Sylvie tried to do something nice for me, it ended in disaster, but I couldn’t bear to tell her that. In order to prevent any calamity that could possibly happen, I would just have to keep an eye on her. “In that case, at least let me help you.” I grabbed a knife, ready to chop a carrot, but Sylvie snatched it out of my hands, shooting me an awkward look.