Party Girl (18 page)

“She has more?” He looks confused. “Let me check.” He scoots over to the ancient computer and clicks through for a bit, but his confusion only grows. “I’m sorry, I don’t see anything in here. Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure. She sent me all the way over to grab whatever it is.”

“Do you think she dropped off something else? I was here when she picked up that red dress and a few blouses this afternoon, but I don’t see anything else in the system. Maybe she brought them in when I was at lunch, and Eva hasn’t put them in the system yet.”

He looks up helplessly. I’m already pulling out my phone to text Selah to ask her which items I’m supposed to pick up. Her response is nearly on top of mine; it’s like she has been just waiting for me to ask.

SELAH SMITH:

That’s right, I picked it all up earlier.

Must have slipped my mind.

I’m still staring down at the text in disgust when the next one pops up.

SELAH SMITH:

Don’t forget to walk Mia.

On the way back to the venue my feet hurt from walking the uneven pavement around Selah’s house in heels. My hair has turned into a frizzy disaster from being in proximity to the ocean, so I have to pull it up into a messy knot on top of my head. And my once-pretty black dress is covered with white dog hair. God forbid Selah would have a little, yappy pocket dog like any normal socialite; no, Mia is a two-hundred-pound Saint Bernard who likes to pull my arms out of their sockets and ruin every outfit I wear in her presence. It takes another two hours to get back over to the hotel because of the wreck on I-10. I should have spent that whole time plotting Selah’s ultimate demise. Instead, all I can do is worry about this pseudo-love triangle she’s cooked up in her imagination.

When I finally trudge my way back into the hotel, I’m shocked to see that the only people left in the ballroom are the members of production tasked with striking the room and the catering staff cleaning up what must have been one heck of a party. The umbrellas are still there floating above the room, but with the house lights turned back up and the smell of spilled alcohol in the air, they don’t look quite so pretty anymore.

Sort of like this job
.

I ignore the little whisper in the back of my mind and pick my way through the room. I don’t even know why I’ve come back. I should have just gone directly home to pajamas and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s because, really, that’s the only answer at this point.

I check in with our team and make sure they’re good before going to grab the stuff I’d hidden under the candy table. First I pull on a black peacoat, then use the table for balance as I slip out of my heels and into my UGGs. I wiggle my toes down into the fluffy boots, and I already feel a million times better. Now all I need is a thousand calories’ worth of chocolate-brownie ice cream, and maybe I can pretend this night never happened.

Chapter SIXTEEN

It’s really late by the time I make my way back home. I’m exhausted emotionally, and I can’t wait to crawl under my blankets. I slip my key into the lock, and when I open the front door I’m surprised to see all the lights on and hear music coming from the kitchen. Max must be pulling another late night working on her thesis.

“You are not going to believe the day I had,” I call out to her as I round the corner to the kitchen. And then I stop cold.

Max is lying on the kitchen floor. She’s unconscious in one of her ridiculous T-shirts, a huge puddle of blood collecting in a halo around her head.

Oh Jesus.

Air rushes out of my lungs, and I’m vaguely aware of the sound of someone hyperventilating. A moment later I realize I’m the one making those sounds. My friend is hurt and I still haven’t moved. Time suddenly speeds back up, and I’m on the floor next to her. Some latent instinct takes over, and I’m already pulling my phone out.

“Max! Max!” I scream as I run my shaky hands over her body, trying to figure out what’s wrong with her. Her coloring looks all wrong, pale even beyond her normally fair skin, and everywhere I touch her she’s clammy and cold. She’s breathing but she doesn’t respond to my voice or my touch. It looks like she’s hit her head.
Was that before or after she passed out?
I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

“Ma’am, I need you to stop yelling. I need you to take a breath and tell me your address.” The woman on the phone speaks in a stern but even tone.

I don’t even realize I’ve called 9-1-1.

“I . . . um . . . my friend is hurt. I don’t know . . . she’s bleeding!”

I’m afraid to move her in case she’s hurt her neck.
Am I supposed to try and stop the bleeding? Is she going to be OK?
I feel all at once numb and hyperaware.
Why won’t she wake up?

“Max!”

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” the operator asks.

“Landon Brinkley. Max is my roommate—and my friend!” I stutter stupidly.

“Landon, I need you to stay calm for me, OK? Tell me what happened to Max.”

I tell her what I know, which isn’t much at all, and our address. When she asks for the door code for our apartment lobby, it takes me three tries before I can get it right because my thoughts are so frenzied. I can hear her typing feverishly in the background.

“Can I . . . Should I use a towel or something for her head?” I’m nearly sobbing but the operator is maddeningly calm.

“Yes, grab a clean towel and apply pressure to the area of her head that’s bleeding. Be very careful not to move her neck at all, OK?”

I grab a kitchen towel off the handle of the dishwasher and very carefully hold it to the area on Max’s head that’s matted with blood.

“She’s so pale and cold,” I whisper.

“Does she have any illnesses that you’re aware of?”

“I don’t know—”

“Can you look her over? Can you tell me if she’s wearing any kind of medical identification?”

“Medical what?” I’m confused.

“Look for a bracelet with a medical ID tag. It’s important.”

“OK—” I’m not sure what she means because surely I would have noticed something like that. I reach for Max’s left hand and her wrist that’s covered with all the different bracelets she never takes off. It doesn’t take me more than a second: one is different from the others. It’s got a red symbol on it.

“She does!” I almost yell when I pinch the tag with my fingers. “It says hypoglycemia. What does that mean?”

I’d never noticed it hidden amongst the other bracelets.
Is that why she wears them? Why didn’t she tell me?

“It means her blood sugar is dangerously low, especially with the blood loss. Do you think you can get her to drink some juice or to eat some candy?”

The side compartment of Max’s purse pops into my mind. It’s forever filled with mini–candy bars despite that she’s on the most health-conscious diet of anyone I’ve ever known.

“I don’t think so. She won’t wake up. I can try, though—”

“No, that’s OK,” the operator says. “You don’t want to force fluids if she’s unable to swallow.”

“Is someone coming to help? Are they close?” I whimper because now I’m really starting to freak out.
What happens if Max can’t get her blood sugar up soon?

“Any minute now. Just stay calm for me, OK?”

I hear the dispatcher speaking to someone else as I kneel on the floor. Blood is staining the knees of my tights. I keep checking her pulse with shaky hands, like they taught us in eighth-grade health. It’s still strong but she won’t open her eyes or respond when I call her name.

“Landon, the paramedics are in the hall. I need you to open the door for them, OK?”

Before she finishes her sentence there’s a loud knock on my door, and I run to open it. A team of firefighters rushes through. I can’t help but think that Max would be mortified if she knew all these men were seeing her in just a T-shirt and her underwear, but then I look at the group of them kneeling around her in the kitchen, and I want to curl into a ball and cry. A stretcher is wheeled in and they’re lifting her onto it; suddenly, they’re taking her back out the door. I stare after them for a moment, and then I grab my purse and chase them down the hall.

Outside the street is filled with fire trucks, and I run up just as they’re loading her into the ambulance. One of the paramedics sees me standing there.

“Do you know if she’s allergic to any medications?”

I panic a little at his words.

“Oh God, I don’t know. Is that bad?”

“It’s OK, it’s just helpful if we know, but it’ll be OK. Her vitals are good. We’re taking her to Cedars. You can meet us there,” he says.

I don’t like this idea. I don’t want to leave Max.
What if something happens to her on the drive over and she’s alone with strangers? I don’t know where I find the strength to argue since it feels like a strong wind could knock me over, but I refuse to leave Max.

“I’ll ride with her.” I step towards the back of the ambulance.

“I’m sorry, miss, that’s against policy. You can meet us at Cedars; I promise your friend will be fine.”

I look him dead in the eye.

“You’re either letting me ride with her or you’re physically removing me from here.”

He must see my resolve because he doesn’t argue further; he just gestures for me to climb in. I find myself cramped into a corner of the ambulance, and I’m watching them shove needles into Max. No matter what they do to her, she doesn’t respond. By the time we arrive at Cedars, I’ve stopped feeling numb. I’m sick with worry.

I hurry into the hospital behind the paramedics wheeling Max, but a nurse stops me.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait here,” she tells me.

“I can’t—my friend is back there.” I point to the swinging doors beyond me. “I don’t want to leave her alone.”

“I understand, and I’m sorry, but no one is allowed back there. Can you answer a few questions for me? Do you know her date of birth?”

Another blank. I’m so angry with myself. Why didn’t I ever think that I might need to know this information? It’s so important, and I have no idea what the answers are.

“I—gosh, sometime in April I think.”

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“Maybe there’s someone you can call? Her family? We’ll have a lot of questions about her medical history and—”

“Of course, yes, I’ll do that.” I fish my phone out of my bag, grateful for something to do.

“I’ll just be over there at that desk. Come find me when you know more.”

I nod and begin scrolling through my contacts. Only then do I realize I don’t actually know how to contact Max’s parents. I suppose I could drive over to their house, but then I . . . didn’t bring my car.

Damn it!
I chew my lip nervously, then I remember: I have all of Selah’s contacts listed in my phone. For one idiotic moment I hesitate.
It’s so incredibly rude to call someone at 1:00 a.m.
Then I shake myself and dial the number. It rings twice and then goes to voice mail, meaning that he doesn’t recognize my out-of-state number and is ignoring the call. Well, at least that means he’s awake. I don’t even bother to leave a voice mail, I just hang up and hit redial as I pace back and forth in front of the nurses’ station. On the fourth call he finally picks up.

“Who is this?” he demands.

“Brody, I’m sorry, this is Landon Brinkley—”

“Landon?” He sounds totally confused. “It’s really late, and, um, not the best time.”

In the background I can hear a crowd and music. A woman giggles and calls his name.

“I know and I’m sorry, but I—”

“Why don’t we forget this happened, OK?”

It hits me.
He thinks I’m drunk-dialing, or worse.
I feel so embarrassed that in my shock at everything that’s happened I almost apologize and get off the phone. I’m so overwhelmed by the entire night and feel like I’m looking down and watching myself from somewhere high on the ceiling. I don’t know where it comes from but I’m crying before I even realize it.

“Brody, it’s Max. I think she’s OK but I came home and she was on the floor and I think she hit her head—” I hear him curse with feeling but I keep tripping over the words trying to get them out. For some reason I’m afraid that he’s going to hang up on me. “The paramedics took her, and the nurse needs to know answers, and I don’t know any. I’m sorry but I didn’t know your parents’ number—”

He interrupts me. “Landon, where are you?”

“Cedars, in the ER waiting room.”

“I need you to find the nurse or the doctor who was asking you questions and let me speak to that person. Can you do that?”

“I can.” I swipe the tears off my cheeks and walk towards the nurses’ station. The nurse looks up when I walk over.

“I have Max’s brother on the phone. He’d like to speak with you.”

The nurse reaches out for my phone.

“Brody, I’m going to hand you over to her.”

“Good girl.” He sounds so calm. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, OK? Do not move.”

“OK,” I mumble as I hand over the phone.

The nurse starts asking him questions, and now that someone else is involved I can take a deeper breath for the first time in an hour. I’m cold even though I haven’t taken off my coat, and I curl my arms around myself protectively as I make my way over to a row of gray plastic chairs to wait. My thoughts are jumbled and confused, but I’m intensely grateful that someone else is involved now to help.

I huddle in the chair and watch people make their way in and out of the busy emergency room. Each person who passes is in some state of pain or illness. Some have broken bones or sick babies, and there’s a palpable feeling of nervous energy while everyone waits for their name to be called. Nobody looks good but I find myself begrudging them their injuries; at least with a broken arm or a cut that needs stitches they
know
what’s wrong with them. I still haven’t heard anything about Max, and it’s making me imagine the worst.

My brain is in such a fog I don’t even realize Brody is standing right in front of me until he calls my name. He’s wearing the nicest-looking tux I’ve ever seen but his hair is mussed in every direction, as if he’s run his hand through it repeatedly. I stare up at him; I’m unable to form words because the weight of this night is starting to pull me under. He sinks down in a squat in front of me at eye level.

“Hey, are you OK?” he asks softly.

I still can’t find words.

I shake my head. No, I’m not OK.

The look on his face is utterly soft as he reaches out to take my hand. I hear his quick intake of breath when his fingers touch mine, and I look down at them. My hands are covered and stained with blood. I hold them out in front of me and stare at them like they’re not attached to my body. I notice the sleeves of my coat and then my tights. Her blood is all over me. I hadn’t even noticed until that moment. I look back into his eyes in panic, but he’s already pulling me to my feet.

“Come on.”

He keeps ahold of my hand and leads me like a small child to the bathroom.

“Do you need me to come in there with you?” He looks at the door of the women’s restroom, then back to me.

I find my voice. “No, I can do it.”

“I’m going to check in with the nurse again.” He looks off behind me. “I’ll be right back.”

I nod and walk through the door he holds open. The sight of myself in the mirror above the sink jolts me out of my trance. My hair is seconds from falling free of the elastic holding it in place. My eye makeup is smudged, and my nose is red from crying.

First things first. I turn on the water and wash my hands. It takes three rounds of soap until they come clean, and I’m so grateful for the reviving effects of cold water that I hold them under the faucet longer than necessary. There are dried patches of blood on the edges of my coat. I think I might be sick; the sight disgusts me more than anything else I’ve seen tonight.

I quickly take off the coat and without another thought shove the whole thing into the trash can. No amount of dry cleaning can ever make me want to wear that coat again, and even if I’m cold I don’t want it touching me. Next I take off my tights and they land in a heap on top of the coat. I use the next several minutes to scrub the blood off my arms and legs. Now I’m just wearing a black cocktail dress and my boots, but at least I feel clean.