Boys of West Denton ✓

chapter thirty-five

harris

It's been almost three days, and Seb still hasn't texted me back.

I'm not sure if I should be more concerned, or more angry. One little text shouldn't hurt. This ghosting out of nowhere feels uncalled for, but it's so unlike Seb. I keep thinking to myself, what if he's not okay? I keep thinking the worst. But then I go straight to thinking about him knocking on the bathroom door, asking me what I wanted to be, and then ... bam. Complete and total radio silence.

I've got the worst fucking migraine I've ever had, though, so I'm having trouble thinking about this whole thing reasonably. It's like my thoughts are cut up into little segments, and I'm trying to catch them in one of those tornado-money machines. Honestly, this is the worst.

I should have just told him I wanted to be his boyfriend. Then none of this would be happening. But, also ... if he's going to act like this—so non-communicative, out of the blue—maybe it's for the best that we're not dating. I rub my temples, as if trying to nurse my thoughts back to a better, happier place. It's not working.

I can't tell if I feel like complete shit because he won't text me back, or if it's the meds I have to take for this stupid oral thrush. My only break from all this Seb stuff was when Mom gave me this big verbal lashing, then explained fluconazole, then explained what I'm taking: Diflucan, which she is now amiably referring to as my "vaginal yeast drugs," which is so, so very appreciated. I can't believe I have to take this shit eight more times. I feel like death.

It's got to be past six a.m. now. I can see the sun beginning to peek over the top of my blackout curtains. Peaches is sound asleep at the end of my bed. Lucky bastard. For me, this has been another restless night of no response from Seb, accompanied by a searing migraine and borderline IBS. Seriously, I'm practically shitting water at this point. I've never been so grateful for the fact that I have an en suite.

Because, truly: I. Am. Miserable.

It's the fucking Diflucan. It has to be. Even though Mom told me all of the side effects to expect, I still double-checked the side effects listed on WebMD, not entirely unlike a middle-aged mom who's convinced she has some kind of rare toe cancer, because I'm skeptical. Sue me. The upset stomach and headaches are expected. Maybe some nausea, some dizziness. If I'm really lucky? Hair loss. (But probably not.) (I think. My mom is the doctor, not me.)

I've taken my fair share of meds over the years. I was one of those kids who was too accident prone to be getting into everything, but did so anyway, and suffered the consequences. But these little dusty pink trapezoids of doom are just too much. It's not just my head, not just my stomach—my whole body aches. Is it supposed to be this bad? I feel like it's not supposed to be this bad.

I keep coughing really bad too. It's not a side effect of the Diflucan, and it's not a symptom of the oral thrush, but I also ran out of water to drink, so maybe that's why. Dry throat. Painfully dry throat. I'd refill my thermos, but I can't bring myself to drag myself upstairs and back down again. Just the mere thought of standing up right now is painful. I collapse into another coughing fit, so bad that I roll onto my side and practically convulse with each painful hack. My migraine is pounding. I might throw up. I cough again, and could almost swear I taste the coppery tang of blood on the back of my tongue, even though I know I must be imagining it.

Still. Maybe this requires a text to Mom.

My phone is next to my pillow, my notifications turned all the way up in case Seb finally responded to my texts. I can barely keep my eyes open—I seriously feel like fucking death, and tilting my chin towards my chest to text makes me realize how shallow my breaths are.

When I unlock my phone, it opens on my many unread texts to Seb. The last being, Hey, Seb, I caught oral thrush in the quarry. You called it. Just thought I should let you know. Hope you're doing okay!! Lmk if you need anything.

I can't deal with this right now. I can't deal with Seb right now.

Besides, texting Mom time. Focus, Harris. I end up unable to text with perfect grammar, but it's not as if I care right now.

          Me: hey mom i think im sick, could u bring more water n thermometer thx luv u

          Mom: What's wrong? Do you think you have a fever?

          Me: maybe, idk
          Me: but i have a rlly bad headache and i keep coughing and if i have anymore diarrhea i will rip out my own colon

          Mom: That's a nice image, baby
          Mom: But ok, I literally just parked in the driveway, I'll be right down.

I hear the front door open. I've only just closed my eyes when another message pings on my phone.

          Mom: Where is the fucking thermometer
          Mom: Nevermind. Found it.

I hear Mom's footsteps as she rushes downstairs, but they're faint and whooshy in my ears. She flicks on my bedroom light, and my sore head silently screams in protest.

"Baby?" Her voice is so soft, and somehow, just hearing it soothes me. "Are you awake?"

"Mmph," I tell her, forcing my eyes open. My vision is blurred at first, until I blink it away. "Yeah. I haven't slept all night."

Mom brushes my hair away from my temple. "I'm sorry, baby. We'll get you all sorted out." I didn't know I needed to hear those words. Relief blossoms amidst the uncomfortable tightness in my chest.

She runs the thermometer over my forehead. I close my eyes again, waiting for that signature little beep that lets me know it's finished taking my temperature. I hear the beep, and the Mom sucks in a breath. She mutters something to herself, clicks her tongue a few times, and I realize she's retaking my temp. There's that beep again. More worrisome sucking in air.

"Fuck. Alright, get up. We're taking you to the hospital."

My head is swimming. I am pain. The hospital? "Why?"

"Because your temperature is 104 degrees, and we're not fucking around and finding out." Mom's phone is in her hand, and I know she has to be calling Grandma. Mom cusses when she doesn't pick up, but leaves a message. "Hey Mom, it's me. Harris is sick, so I'm taking him into the hospital. Can you come let Peaches out when you have time? Thanks in advance. Uh ... I'll keep you updated. Love you. Bye."

I try to get out of bed, but there's this sudden strange almost-squeezing in my chest. "Mom?" I ask. It's thin. I try to take a full breath and can't. Fuck. Okay. Fuck. "Mom, I'm having trouble breathing."

Mom is next to me in an instant. "Are you wheezing? Is there pain in your chest?"

I nod, trying my best not to cough in her face. Oh my god, I hurt. I hurt everywhere. My chest is suddenly squeezing tight, but not in that familiar anxiety way—it feels like something's winding up tight, behind my ribs. I take a gasping breath, trying to fill up my lungs. Somehow, it leaves me feeling even more empty than before.

"Deep breaths, baby," Mom says, placing one hand in the gap between my shoulder blades. "Can you stand?"

"I think so." I don't try, though. I'm too busy focusing on trying to catch my breath again.

Then I cough, strangely warm and phlegmy into my elbow. When I pull away, I feel faint.

There's blood there.