Carter Ortese is Trouble - completed (The Boys #1)

Chapter 42: Emma

I close my eyes. It feels like a blink, but also like someone has stuffed me into a capsule and shoved me through a wormhole in time and space, pushed ever onward without my permission.

Whichever pain medication they have me on makes my brain drift into weird places, like what is actually inside the sewer, how big was the biggest rat ever found, and has any teenager ever been sucked into a sewer by some evil psycho clown?

My brain loops on these fake images of my mom. They pair so well with the real ones that I'm having trouble sorting through the truth.

She told me all about how she grew up on a farm, but her parents were so disappointed with her choice of a future that they disowned her. She told me about how she met Henry Williams through a swipe-right dating website, which doesn't seem right. Neither does the farm thing. But then she's back, telling me about the three other kids she had and gave up for adoption when she was a teenager, and I have twenty-seven farm cousins she's been keeping a secret. And she wants me to know that she's actually a fish and needs to go back to the ocean soon, else she'll drown on land.

None of these conversations are real, but my strange dreams start to blend into reality, and I can almost believe them. When I blink again, I expect to see more of my mom, spilling her guts about her strange world, but instead, I see the storm cloud blue of Carter's irises gazing back at me.

Something about seeing him here makes me sober. The room stops shifting sideways, and I focus on him. His dark hair looks almost black underneath the blaring florescent lights. It's unkempt and perfect.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," I say. My lips are dry and speaking makes my throat feel like it is splitting wide open.

His eyes drift over the thin hospital blankets, and I feel the weight of the bandages around my stomach even more. He focuses on the wires trailing out from underneath my gown and the IV stuck in my arm. He nods once almost imperceptibly, like he's convincing himself of something.

I lick my lips, but there's nothing I can do to make them stop feeling like the Sahara. They are cracked and dry like the rest of me.

Carter watches me and notices, because of course he does. He reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table, and this unspoken thing crosses between us. He asks for permission without ever saying a word, and I'm grateful for the distraction of the straw hitting my lips and the coolness of the water washing over me. It does nothing to ease the pain, and it rests heavy and hollow in my stomach. It's just a few sips, but it's enough.

"Thanks." My throat is still on fire, but the sharp edge is gone.

"Anytime," he offers, and a frown creases his lips. "Though, not under these circumstances again, please? Let's do something stupid, like a picnic or I can feed you mushy french fries from the cafeteria and we can be one of those couples who makes me want to barf. Not ... here."

I find myself smiling, because he seems off his game. Maybe it's the drugs, or maybe Carter's long-standing facade has finally worn off around me, melted away into nothing. I wonder if he'll ever let the rest of the world in.

"You came," I say after a moment.

He looks down at his clothes, and I realize still wearing the same outfit. Slim jeans, a hoodie, and a black t-shirt. "I never left."

"Oh." I'm not sure what to say to that. I'm also not sure how long I've been out. Three hours? Sixteen? A day?

"I highly don't recommend sleeping in a waiting room chair."

"I highly don't recommend getting hospitalized."

"I highly don't recommend watching your girlfriend get hospitalized."