I really did try to work on it, the eating thing. I didn't make a ton of progress, but I usually ate a handful more than I normally did, whether it was grapes or chips or crackers, whatever was on sale at the grocery store that week. I knew Sam wanted more from me, but I couldn't compromise everything yet.
Two weeks in, I gave up on it. I went back to my old ways, but didn't tell Sam.
I eventually paid for it.
In Humanities, the ever exciting class full of unwelcome surprises, Ms. Reynolds announced that we were taking a fieldtrip.
I'd never been on a fieldtrip before. I was one of those kids in elementary school that never got their permission slip signed and had to spend the day in the library writing some essay instead of going to the zoo or the water recycling plant or whatever. I always asked my mom to sign the permission slip, but she didn't think about me often enough to remember to sign it.
But now I was eighteen, and I didn't need one. I was almost excited, until Ms. Reynolds explained that our field trip would be a hike on a trail on the outskirts of town. Really? A nature walk? It was better than nothing, I guess.
So that Friday, we met Ms. Reynolds at the trail head when first period would normally begin, having been excused from our classes for the hike. What hiking had to do with Humanities beat me, but I was glad to get out of Statistics. Plus it was extra hours Sam and I got to spend together.
Sam had a backpack filled with water bottles and our lunches so I didn't have to carry anything as we set out a few minutes after school started. It wasn't even eight in the morning, but it was unseasonably hot already. Of course we would hike on the first day the temperature rose above eighty five degrees. As we started walking, I realized that I hadn't considered my bad knee. It held up for volleyball most days, but walking a few miles on uneven ground might hurt it. Stupid. I should have thought of that before.
The hike was harder than I thought it was going to be, maybe because of the heat and the sun beating down on us, maybe because I hadn't eaten anything for breakfast. For whatever reason, I found that I was breathing heavy and my skin was cold and clammy.
Sam and I didn't really talk while we hiked the first two hours. He didn't mind, just offered me help over ruts and boulders in the middle of the trail and passed me water before I had the chance to ask, but I was starting to really feel terrible as we approached our break point.
Just as we arrived, I knew I was going to be sick. As everyone sat spread around in the small field, I ducked behind a tree and emptied my stomach.
Sam was there in an instant, hands on my back to steady me and pull my ponytail away from the vomit, murmuring to me. When my stomach was empty, I stumbled to the ground and laid down a few feet from my mess. "Ugh."
"Abigail," Sam said, kneeling down next to me.
"I feel terrible," I moaned.
"Did you eat today?"
I should have--I should have at least considered it before leaving the house. Reluctantly, I shook my head, then groaned as the movement made me dizzy.
Sam's protective nature kicked in full-blast. He pulled a bandana out of his backpack, poured water on it, and tied it around my head. Once I had sipped at a water bottle and he was slightly satisfied at my hydration level, he scooped me up in his arms. I was too weak to fight back.
"What are you doing?" I asked instead, feeling exhausted and clammy.
"Taking you home," he said sternly.
Resting limply against his chest, I protested, "We can't just leave."
"Want to bet?" he replied just as firmly.
I could feel everyone watching us with interest when we started towards the trail. "Sam?" Ms. Reynolds called.
"I am taking Abigail home." His tone left no room for argument, not even from an adult responsible for us.
I heard Tristan's voice but couldn't tell what he was saying. It must have been something vulgar or provoking because Sam whirled around and snarled at him. My head pounded with the fast movement and I gasped with pain.
"Abigail is sick," Sam growled. His chest vibrated against me and I probably would have laughed at the sensation if I wasn't feeling like death warmed over. "I am taking her to a doctor." With that, he started down the mountain, me resting weakly in his arms.
I made Sam stop twice on the way back down to the parking lot so I could throw up the water he'd given me. Sam's arms went more and more rigid with every moan that escaped me. His arms were clutching me tight by time we reached his car thirty minutes later. It had taken us two hours to go up, but with Sam's strength and immortal athletic ability, or maybe just his desperation, it took us a fraction of the time to return to the parking lot.
Though the gesture was romantic, it wasn't actually all that comfortable to be carried down the side of a mountain in Sam's arms. I zoned out as we rushed down the path, and became drowsy despite the discomfort.
Sam gently laid me in the passenger seat of his car, buckled me in, and I was asleep before we pulled out of the lot.
I woke up confused and dizzy. It took me a minute to remember what was going on, how I had gotten back on my futon bed in my bedroom with Lizzie Bennet curled up on my feet.
I groaned as I came back into consciousness, surveying myself. I was feeling better than I was on the trail. Although I was still exhausted, the nausea was thankfully gone. Nausea was the worst feeling.
As I woke fully, I opened my eyes and looked around, hoping to see Sam. Instead, I got distracted when I found an IV in my right arm. "Ugh, gross!" I exclaimed as I jerked my arm away from my body. I wasn't a big fan of needles, especially when they suddenly appeared in my body without my consent.
A hand that wasn't mine stopped me from pulling at the IV. "No, leave it be," Emile said.
I startled at his touch. I hadn't realized there was anyone else in the room with me. "Oh, Emile," I said, finding Sam's golden haired cousin sitting in a chair he had dragged into my small bedroom. "Hi."
"Hello, Abby," he said gently. HIs eyes were soft but his hands were firm as they nestled my arm back down to my side, IV intact. "Sam called me on the way home from your hike," he explained, "asking me to take a look at you. The IV is just fluids—you got very dehydrated."
"Oh," I responded, not feeling very intelligent at the moment. My head felt full of cotton and the edges around my eyesight were still a little hazy, but the nausea was gone and my energy was on the way to replenishing itself. "I feel a lot better now."
"That's good." He settled back down on the kitchen chair that took up most of the floor space in my tiny room. He must have been there with me, watching over me as I slept. Although a self-conscious--my room was full of dirty clothes and cups strewn about--I felt reassured by that thought, that I had my own doctor-friend watching out for me. "I also gave you an antiemetic," he went on, "and you haven't thrown up since."
Meaning, I'd thrown up since coming home? "You cleaned up my barf?" I whispered in horror.
His mouth quirked up with humor. "You don't want to know," he whispered back.
I groaned, covering my face with my hands. The movement pulled on the IV and I yelped in pain.
"Be careful," Emile said, immediately pulling my arm back down so the IV was settled nicely. He admitted, "It was Sam, and it was in the car."
"Not the car," I moaned.
Emile was still watching me with humor. "Sadly, yes."
"Does he hate me?"
"Of course not," he scoffed. "You couldn't control it."
"I could have eaten," I replied bitterly.
Emile shook his head, adding, "Eating would have just made it worse."
My eyebrows raised at his words. Encouraging me not to eat? He clearly hadn't realized my... issue with eating. I was glad.
I tried sitting up, Emile leaping towards me to help unnecessarily. "Take it easy," he said.
"I feel pretty normal," I said.
"That does not mean you are better," he said. "Have some of this." He handed me a cup of orange juice, and I was surprised by the way it fizzed in my mouth. "Orange juice and 7-Up," Emile explained with a wistful smile. "It was Jane's favorite when she was sick."
I smiled back, though sadness for him gathered in my gut. "It's good," I said, taking another few sips. He seemed satisfied, so I leaned back against the futon and enjoyed his company. "Where's Sam?" I asked, finally realizing that it was kind of weird Emile was there but Sam wasn't.
"Picking up Nate and Paula."
Oh no. I started forward, spilling some of the drink on my Mickey Mouse covers as I attempted to climb out of bed. Nate! "Oh my gosh, I completely forgot!"
Emile caught me and eased me back down on the futon, taking the cup before it spilled any more. "You were sleeping," Emile pointed out.
"Not an excuse!" I retorted, still trying to get up.
Emile put more force in his coaxing me back in bed. "Sam has it under control. He talked to Birdie, and he was put on the approved pick up list for the Nate. He's gone in your car so Nate can recognize it. He's got it under control."
"Still--" I trailed off, feeling awful.
"Sam is an extremely responsible person, you know," Emile said.
I slowly relaxed back into bed. I nodded at Emile's assessment: Sam was the most responsible teenager I knew. Probably from all those extra years of living. I trusted him to take care of the Nate, and Birdie obviously did, too. I still felt awful for failing Nate, though. I was the worst babysitter.
Before I could dive further into to self-loathing, Emile decided it was alright to take my IV out. "You just have IV's sitting around?" I asked, not looking.
"I work at a hospital," he said with a shrug. "And I have been in the medical business for a long, long time. I have some powerful connections." He tilted his head. "I am a powerful connection."
"Oh." I thought about asking him how long, but I knew it would be a lost cause. Everyone was leaving it up to Sam to reveal his age to me, and knew better than to give me clues. It was a sore spot.
After taping a gauze pad to the IV site in the crook of my arm, Emile's fingers drifted down to the scars from his fingernails on my wrist.
Hm.
"Sam told you," I guessed.
His eyes were sad and discomforted when he nodded, adding, "Sam was distraught when you told him, and he just needed to talk it out. I'm sorry, I hope that is alright."
I gave him a shrug. It wasn't really. I didn't want anyone who wasn't necessary to know. Emile, though... if I was forced to pick someone else to tell about what happened to me, Emile was a good choice. Though I didn't know him that well, I knew he was kind. He was a doctor, so he knew how to be discreet and secretive. And from the little I knew of him, I thought he would probably be non-judgmental about it, too. To my face, at least.
He looked at my scars for a long time, his forehead creasing as he frowned. "Abby," he finally asked quietly. "Just how much did he hurt you?"
Immediately, I shook my head. I knew what he was trying to say. "Enough," I replied, ignoring his implied question. Emile nodded, but still looked like he wanted to argue the point. "He's in jail, you know," I cut in. "So you don't have to report anything. Plus I'm not a minor." I knew as a doctor he was a mandatory reporter of child abuse, but there was nothing to report that hadn't been told before.
He hummed in reply, but still didn't look comforted. He opened his mouth again, but I hurried to cut him off. "Do you hate me?"
Emile startled, taken off guard. "Why would I hate you, Abby?"
"Because I took Sam away from you."
He leaned back against his chair, giving me a thoughtful look. "You aren't taking him away," he assured me. "I knew it would come eventually, that he would find his Beloved. It's not like I was going to have him all to myself forever."
"But still. He's your best friend." It was a guilt I'd felt before. Emile had his own Beloved--his wife--taken away from him only two years before, and now I was taking his refuge, his comfort person, away from him.
Emile smiled softly. "He can still be my best friend even when he is with you."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. I don't hate you, Abby. Please don't think that."
I forced myself not to argue. "Are you guys legitimately cousins, after all?"
Emile laughed. "We are related, if that is what you mean." He smiled and took my hand and rubbed it encouragingly. "You make him happier than I have ever seen him, and that is enough for me. Besides, I am not losing him—I am gaining another friend."
"I'd like to be your friend, Emile," I told him, meaning it. I wanted to be further ingrained into Sam's life, into Sam's family. I wanted to get to know Sam's best friend, not just for my benefit, or for Sam's, but because this guy in front of me needed friends. He seemed nice, and he seemed very sad, and I wanted to help him with that. Making friends here in Hartford had not only made me happy, but helped me make a place for myself in my new life. My friends cheered me up, and helped bring me out of my own depression. I wanted to pay that forward.
"I'd like that, too. It's been hard being social, but... I'm lonely, Abby," he admitted.
"So spend more time with us," I encouraged, giving the hand that still held mine a squeeze.
He looked uncertain, but nodded. "I'll--I'll try to spend more time with you two."
"I know it must be hard for you, but we'd really like it if you did. You're always welcome."
HIs head nodded one more time, then he turned professional doctor mode back on. "Now no more talking, you need rest."