Something I Don't Know

15: you can't get coffee at a teahouse

       

When I wake up, it's quiet downstairs.

    Upon our arrival at Jamie's and my loft, Midge and I had carried the still-delirious Jamie to his bedroom, where she'd then ordered me out of the room, saying I was distracting. Not that I was distracting her, just that I was distracting, which is a nuance I feel is worth pointing out. Sick with worry (it didn't matter that River had said he'd be fine, I ran through all the possibilities that he wasn't in my head anyway) and unable to keep my eyes open, I'd slumped up stairs and gotten in my bed.

    Now, I blink into pure darkness, the ceiling fan a mere shadow above my head. I turn my head against the pillow and listen for a while, for voices, for footsteps, but the house is utterly still. All that sounds are the crickets outside, the faintest blare of a car horn.

    Exhaling, I roll off the bed, my bare toes meeting cold wood. I've put on a ridiculously huge black sweater—probably once my dad's—and a pair of pajama pants, though I don't remember the physical action of doing so. I consider going back to bed, but I'm too awake now, my brain swimming with thoughts, all my senses hyperaware.

    I wonder if Jamie's okay.

    And then I figure I have nothing better to do than to make sure.

    So I head out of my bedroom and down the stairs, careful to be as soundless as possible in case I'm the only one awake. Where's Midge, anyway? Did she go home? I hope she didn't. I get an image of her walking back to her townhouse in the dark, all by herself, and shudder. Jesus. I shouldn't have fallen asleep.

    I pass by the French doors to the back porch; the sky's an inky blue-black, speckled with stars, the crescent moon a pale, sleeping eye against it. It has to be one in the morning, at least, though probably later than that. Only a few yellow lights punctuate the otherwise sleeping city.

    When I reach Jamie's bedroom door, I find that it's cracked. Now, by no means am I a ninja, so being quiet certainly isn't my specialty. It takes me about ten minutes to shimmy myself between the door and the jamb, but hey, at least the door only creaks once.

    Jamie's fast asleep in his bed, turned on his side, white comforter pulled up to his neck. I dare taking a step closer, and his face still has a feverish flush to it, but his breathing is calm and steady, which is a win.

    I stare at him for a second, white hair tossed messily across his forehead, then shake my head. "Jerk," I mutter, half to myself, half to him. "Take better care of yourself."

    I leave and instead go in search of something to drink.

    Midway through this search is when I find Midge, passed out on the couch with one arm tossed over its back. She's still in the dress she wore to the re-opening, but her hair's come undone and now splays like pink cotton candy beneath her head as she sleeps. There's something yellow on her skirt that I hypothesize is probably Jamie's vomit, so as I approach her, I steer quite clear of that part.

    I would like to say she looks peaceful as she sleeps, because that seems like the romantic, aww kind of way to go, but she doesn't. She's frowning and her eyebrows are knitted and I can see her eyes twitching beneath her eyelids. I wonder what she's dreaming about. I wonder, really, if I want to know.

    I lean over her, kiss her right eyelid, then her left. I tell her, "Sleep well, shortcake," and straighten up, but her hand catches mine.

    When I look down at her again, her eyes are open, and she's squinting at me. She stretches, her spine cracking audibly as she does. "Mmm...Grey? Is that you? I can't see...it's so dark in here."