In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Paris: Hey, love. I'm at the grocery store, any requests for when you get back?
Reagan: I'm at the apartment already. Can you please get me a smoothie from The Mellow Yellow?
Paris: You're home? Didn't you say you had classes until late?
Reagan: I did. I decided not to go.
Paris: What happened, are you sick?
Reagan: I'm not sick, I just have a headache.....and I'm throwing up a little.
Paris: Reagan, love, that's the definition of being sick. I'll be home in a few, hang tight.
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I'M SNUGGLED UP ON the balcony couch when I hear Paris calling my name. “I'm out here!” I shout and immediately regret it when my voice echoes back in my head. I shut my eyes, fighting back the nausea as I listen to his approaching footsteps.
“Hey,” he whispers, moving my hair away from my face and pressing the back of his hand to my forehead. I squint my eyes open to find him kneeling next to me. “How do you feel?”
“The world is spinning, and I kind of want to vomit again. But otherwise, I'm doing pretty good. No complaints,” he laughs, and it's warm and comforting. Like an embrace from an old friend. I hear the crinkling tell of a pack opening and the sound hurts my brain so I slam my eyes back shut. “What's that?”
“A thermometer. You're going to have to sit up for me, love,”
“Can't, my body hurts,” I say, a second before sneezing into the paper towel in my hand. “I'm sorry,”
“What did I say about apologizing for things you don't need to apologize for, princess?”
“I'm sorry,” I say, my face going red because I just did the thing he asked me not to do. He shakes his head, moving a few curls out of my face and tipping my chin up.
“I'm going to lift you, is that okay?” I nod my head, squeezing my eyes as the world flips for a minute. When I open them again, Paris is kneeling in front of the couch with the thermometer in his hand, and its open package lying next to him. He smiles at me, flashing that chipped canine that makes my heart do gymnastics.
“I look like a homeless person, don't I?”
“A very beautiful homeless person,” he assures me as he hands over the thermometer. I turn it on and place it beneath my tongue, giving it back to him when I hear the beep. The frown pulling at his eyebrows tells me it's nothing good.
“What is it?”
“A hundred and one, point four,”
“Is that bad?”
“Yeah, princess, it's bad. Here, take this,” he says, rummaging through the bag he brought and taking out a container of Tylenol and a bottle of water. He hands me the water bottle and the white pill, but as soon as I bring it to my mouth, the nausea hits. My eyes widen, and then I'm running to the bathroom, the aches in my body be damned. I haven't eaten anything since breakfast, and I've already thrown up three times since then, so now bile burns my throat. Choking me as I kneel on the cold marble over the toilet and heave, over and over. Paris is there in a second, holding my hair back while he runs a comforting hand down my back.
