Unscripted (27 page)

I walked over to where I thought I saw a path, and then another cramp hit.
Dammit.
Sitting down on a rock, I cradled my stomach again. When I thought the pain was gone, I stood up. Yeahhh, bad idea. Spots swam in front of my eyes, blending with the darkness, until I couldn’t see much of anything. A wave of nausea swept over me. I dropped onto the rock again, sure I was going to vomit on my beloved raffia wedges. I spread my feet apart to clear a space, just in case.

More deep breathing. I could wait this thing out. I could. As soon as the nausea passed, I decided, I would throw myself into my SUV and beat it out of there, back down the mountain, students and their spray paint and their rock be damned. I would get my butt back into my monk’s cell and sleep this thing off, whatever it was.

But the nausea didn’t pass. The minutes ticked by as I sat there, the warm breeze ruffling my hair and making me icky and chilled. I started shaking, partially from the chills, partially from the queasiness, and partially from . . .just everything.

How in the world had I gotten here? I wanted to go home. I wanted to be able to click my red heels and be back in my own king-size memory-foam-mattressed bed in L.A., with no nausea, no safety of community college students weighing on my mind, no longing to have Mason in front of me, smiling warmly . . . (Wait—what was that last thing?)

I wanted to reverse time, back to before my mother invaded, before Jamie stole all my money. Before stupid Random Shit Productions and Sean and Evan’s stupid obsession with vomit and strippers, before being persona non grata in the business, before Bea told me to get out of town, before being booted off the lot by studio security, before I grabbed Randy’s balls.

Back to when I still had a job I was good at, back to when I was happily ensconced in my own home with no intrusions, no drama except what I put on TV each week, no disruptions at all.

Could I get rid of all of that but keep Mason in my life?

Wait—what?

I started to wonder if I was inching toward delirium, but then all thoughts left my head as a new, more powerful wave of barfiness swept over me. I went from queasy to stand-back-she’s-gonna-blow. At that point everything went sort of hazy. The one thing that stood out was a lurch of panic that doubled my level of ickiness. Was I going to pass out? Was I going to die here, out in the weird semi-wilderness above Moreno Valley? Would anyone find my body, or would it be dragged off by coyotes? Wait—were there coyotes around here? Or could scorpions drag me off if they joined forces, like those killer ants did to that guy in
Indiana Jones 4
?

Oh God, I really was delirious, wasn’t I?

I tried more deep breathing, but that just made me barfier than ever. I prayed for wellness. I prayed for rescue.

I realized I had my phone in my pocket.

My hand shaking, I forced it to unclench from my abdomen, and I reached into the back pocket of my jeans. Doing that let in some cold air near my stomach, and I shivered. I pushed the button to bring my phone to life. My eyes tried to focus on my phone options. If I hit “redial,” it would get me Jaya, who was too far away to help. Should I call 911? Where would I tell them I was? “On a mountain somewhere—please help!” Just great. Could they track me by my phone signal, or was that a myth?

I aimed for the keypad button, failed. More nausea. I stopped to tighten my grip on my stomach, then rocked back and forth on my rock perch. Oh, that didn’t help. When the cramp eased up a little, I hit the phone again. I ended up with my contacts list. Oh bloody hell . . . But then there it was. My eyes focused on Mason’s number, the one he had just put into my phone. Call him if I needed anything, he said. Well, I needed. I needed bad.

I went to tap the number . . . and then I stopped. How could I ask for his help again? How could I ask him to come get me, wherever I was, late at night? I barely knew the guy. My pride wouldn’t let me dial.

I groaned. Maybe I’d feel better in a minute. Sure I would. Another wave of nausea. Um, nope, I wouldn’t. But Faith Freakin’ Sinclair was not about to be laid low by some sickness, on the side of a mountain, outside ofMoreno Valley. That was
not
part of the agenda, dammit. That was
not
how this story ended.

So I waited, my phone clutched in my hand, unused. I wrapped my arms around my legs and rested my forehead on my knees. And prayed for death.

* * *

That was the last thing I remembered, until a noise. A light. Someone was shaking my shoulder gently. “Faith. Faith, come on. How much did you have to drink, Faith?”

I hadn’t been able to respond to whoever it was, except for a weak groan, until that question. The part of my brain that was still functioning thought,
the nerve!
“Nothing!” I moaned.

“All right. Can you walk? No?” A sigh. “Okay. Let’s go . . .”

More darkness, more nothing. Then I was jostled into consciousness as someone folded me into a car. Oh, too much jostling. Way too much. I tried to form words, wasn’t sure I succeeded.

“Faith—what did you say?”

Apparently I’d failed. I tried again. “
Move
.”

I pushed on the person’s chest. He yielded. Somehow I slid back out of the car, landed on my feet, leaned forward . . . and spewed. A lot. And then some more.

And when I was done, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Goddamn. It’s always about vomit.”

Chapter 16

My eyes opened to dim light. A bed. Sheets. I moved my legs and realized that the bed was larger than my glorified cot in the dorm, but that thought was driven right out of my head by sudden blinding, searing pains shooting through my abdomen like ninjas were stabbing me with a bunch of knives, first here, then there—all over, all at once. Instinctively, I drew my knees up to my stomach and kept very, very still. The pain settled. I moved my leg a bit. More pain. Back to fetal position. I was afraid to even move my head to look around, although I wasn’t sure what I’d be able to see in the half-light.

I decided to just focus on not moving. And, after a short time, when my heartbeat slowed to a normal rate, I dropped back off to sleep.

* * *

When I woke again, it was day. I was still a human knot, tensely perched near the edge of the bed. Vividly recalling what happened the last time I moved, I was afraid to budge an inch, but my legs were aching. I decided to chance it. Gingerly, I straightened my right leg; no stomach pain. Now the left leg; pain. I winced as my abdomen seized up, as though someone had sewn my innards with string and pulled them taut like lacing up a shoe. But it wasn’t nearly as bad as the last time. I waited; the pain passed.

Next goal: roll over. And relax my shoulders—they were bunched up something terrible. I rolled over—slowly—onto my back. Still alive. That was good. Pain again but, again, bearable. I took some deep breaths. I didn’t think it actually helped, but at least it was something to focus on till things calmed down in my gut.

Now . . . where was I? The blank white ceiling didn’t tell me anything. I was going to have to move again, maybe even—shudder—raise my head and have a look around. After the few moments it took to talk myself into it, I reached behind my head, bunched up the pillow a little, and propped my head up.

It was a darned pleasant room, I had to admit. A comfortable bed, happy yellow walls, white IKEA-type furniture, flowery pictures in white frames, flowery quilt, dotted-swiss curtains. Judging by the light trying to peek through the blond wood blinds, probably a brilliantly sunny room most days. It was like I was in Oz, the brightness of this place, the difference between it and the dorm room, let alone the Super Duper Nine Motor Court. Too bad something smelled really bad. Super-Duper-Nine-Motor-Court-bathtub-drain bad.

I shifted again and realized that smell was coming from me.

Ew.

Before I could puzzle that part out, the bedroom door opened.

“Hey, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

My cottony mouth moved, but nothing came out, no matter how desperately I tried to make it work. Or maybe, I realized, I had no idea what to say.

Mason crouched down by the side of the bed and studied me. “Had me worried there for a while, you know? I was ready to call 911 a couple of times during the night.”

During the night? What? I turned my head to look at the other side of the bed, but it was still neatly made up, not even a body indentation on top of the happy flowered quilt. Then I saw a blanket and a pillow thrown on a small cushioned chair in the corner. He slept in that chair all night? Watching me?

My eyes were pulled back to Mason, who was looking at me calmly, eyes clear (if a little red-rimmed), and with a pleasant, patient smile on his face. “You look better. Do you feel better?”

Still I wasn’t able to answer. It was like someone had iced my brain. Thoughts weren’t connecting, ideas weren’t completing, and words
definitely
weren’t forming.

And then a memory popped into my head. And then another. And another. And . . . aw, shit.

“Sorry I yakked on your shoes.” My words came out all raspy, as though I hadn’t spoken in a month. My throat was burning—probably, it occurred to me, from said yakking.

“I never liked them much anyway.”

Then I remembered something else. “And your car mat.” He nodded, smiling serenely. “And . . . your driveway?” Nod. “And . . .” I winced. “Your foyer.” Nod. “And . . . oh damn, I’m so sorry about your ficus tree.”

“I never liked that thing much either.”

“I got your carpet too, didn’t I?”

“And your attractive outfit, which was, I’m sorry to report, beyond salvation.”

My clothes? Well, then, if they were . . . waitaminnit. Slowly, I lifted the quilt a few inches and peeked under it. I was wearing a stretched-out, faded heather-gray T-shirt with some red logo, split and peeling, on the front. Mason’s? I moved a little, and my bare nipples grazed the cotton. No bra? I pulled the quilt up to my chin.

Mortification, that’s what it was. It must have showed in my face when I looked back at Mason, because he answered the question I didn’t ask, still quite calmly. “Kaylie.”

That
didn’t make me feel any better. “What?”

“Kaylie took care of you. Actually, she called me late last night, told me about the plan to tag the rock, that the students invited you, but you didn’t show up. She got worried, thought you were lost. Elias had left with his van, so she called me.”

“And the two of you . . .”

“Checked your room, didn’t find you there, then drove around till we did. Kaylie had an idea where you’d gone wrong with her directions, and there you were. Thank goodness. We brought you back here—she followed with your car, hope you don’t mind—and she got you changed before we got you into bed.”

Slowly my brain was thawing, and one thing jumped out at me from the avalanche of last night’s recollections: I doubted I had “gone wrong” with Kaylie’s directions. I was starting to suspect that she had given me bogus directions to
get
me lost. But I couldn’t prove that. Instead, I said, “So you saved me from dying on a mountainside and being gnawed on by coyotes or prairie dogs or whatever lives out there.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think you would have
died
—”

“Oh yes, I would have. It was the mac and cheese. The kids were right.”

“
Never
eat the mac and cheese!”

Apparently everybody on campus knew that except me. “They dared me.”

“Also, never accept one of their dares. Those guys are ruthless.”

“I’m catching on,” I said, thinking of Kaylie.

“However,” he went on, “the mac and cheese was not to blame.”

“Was too.”

He chuckled. “No bringing a lawsuit against the cafeteria. There’s a vicious stomach bug running rampant among the residents of the dorm where your guest room is. If Kaylie hadn’t called me with the news this morning from campus, and if your fever had stayed high, I
would
have gotten you to the hospital.”

Part of me wanted to yell at him, scream that he
should have
called an ambulance ages ago, and what if it
had
been more serious, I could have
died
blah blah blah . . . But I was here, and (mostly) whole, and he had apparently spent the night
in achair
to keep an eye on me. That was . . . something. Really something.

So instead of going off on him, I studied his open face, his warm brown eyes, and just said, “Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome. I’m sorry you had such a rough night.”

“Sounds like you did too.”

“I wasn’t the one hurling up a vat of mac and cheese.”

“No, you were just the person who had to clean it up. I’m . . . sorry about that.”

“No apologies, okay?”