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  Cath shook her head.

  * * *

  Wren was in a room by herself. It was dark, and her eyes were closed. Cath couldn’t tell if she was sleeping.

  “Do I need to watch for anything?” Cath asked the nurse.

  “No, she’s just resting now.”

  “Our dad will be here soon,” Cath said.

  “Okay. We’ll send him back.”

  Cath sat down slowly, quietly, in the chair by Wren’s bed. Wren looked pale. She had a dark spot, maybe a bruise, on her cheek. Her hair was longer than it had been at Christmas, hanging over her eyes and curling at her neck. Cath pushed it back.

  “I’m awake, you know,” Wren whispered.

  “Are you still drunk?”

  “A little. Muzzy.”

  Cath tucked Wren’s hair back again in a soothing gesture. Soothing for Cath, anyway. “What happened?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Who brought you in?”

  Wren shrugged. There was an IV in her arm and something taped to her index finger. Up close, she smelled like puke. And like Wren—like Tide and Marc Jacobs Lola.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Muzzy,” she said. “Sick.”

  “Dad’s coming.”

  Wren groaned.

  Cath folded her arms on the edge of the mattress and laid her head down, exhaling. “I’m glad they brought you in,” she said, “whoever it was who brought you in. I’m … sorry.”

  That I wasn’t there, that you didn’t want me there, that I wouldn’t have known how to stop you anyway.

  Now that she was with Wren and Wren was okay, Cath realized how exhausted she was. She shoved her glasses into her coat pocket and laid her head back down. She was just drifting off—or maybe she’d just drifted off—when she heard Wren whimper. Cath lifted her head. Wren was crying. Her eyes were closed, and tears were running down into her hair. Cath could almost feel the tickle. “What’s wrong?”

  Wren shook her head. Cath wiped Wren’s tears away with her fingers, and wiped her fingers on her shirt.

  “Should I get the nurse?”

  Wren shook her head again and started shifting in the bed. “Here,” she said, making room.

  “Are you sure?” Cath asked. “I don’t want to be the reason you choke on your own vomit.”

  “None left,” Wren whispered.

  Cath kicked off her boots and climbed up over the railing, lying down in the space Wren had cleared for her. She put her arm carefully under Wren’s neck. “Here,” Cath said.

  Wren curled against her with her head on Cath’s shoulder. Cath tried to untangle the tubes around Wren’s arm, then held her hand tightly. It was sticky.

  Wren’s shoulders were still shaking.

  “It’s okay,” Cath said. “It’s okay.”

  Cath tried not to fall asleep until Wren did, but it was dark, and she was tired, and everything was blurry.

  * * *

  “Oh, God,” she heard their dad say. “Oh, Wren. Baby.”

  Cath opened her eyes, and her dad was leaning over them both, kissing both of their foreheads. Cath sat up carefully.

  Wren’s eyes were crusty and puffy, but open.

  Their dad stood back and put his hand on Wren’s cheek. “Jesus Christ,” he said, shaking his head. “Kid.”

  He was wearing gray dress pants and a light blue shirt, untucked. His tie, orange with white starbursts, was stuffed into and hanging out of his pocket. Presentation clothes, Cath thought.

  She checked his eyes out of habit. They were tired and shining, but clear.

  Cath felt overwhelmed then, all of a sudden, and even though this wasn’t her show, she leaned forward and hugged him, pressing her face into his stale shirt until she could hear his heart beating. His arm came up, warm, around her. “Okay,” he said roughly. Cath felt Wren take her hand. “Okay,” their dad said again. “We’re okay now.”

  * * *

  Wren didn’t have to stay in the hospital. “You can sleep and drink water at home,” the doctor said.

  Real home. Omaha. “You’re coming back with me,” their dad said, and Wren didn’t argue.

  “I’m coming, too,” Cath said, and he nodded.

  A nurse took out Wren’s IV, and Cath helped her to the bathroom, patting her back while she dry-heaved over the sink. Then Cath helped her wash her face and change into her clothes—jeans and a tank top.

  “Where’s your coat?” their dad asked. Wren just shrugged. Cath took off her cardigan and handed it to her.

  “It smells like sweat,” Wren said.

  “It’ll be the best-smelling part of you,” Cath answered.

  Then they had to wait for Wren’s paperwork. The nurse asked if she’d like to speak to an addictions specialist. Wren said no. Their dad just frowned.

  “Have you eaten anything?” Cath asked him.

  He yawned. “We’ll drive though someplace.”

  “I’m driving,” Cath said.

  Their dad had tried to get a flight out of Tulsa the night before, but there weren’t any until this afternoon, so he’d ended up renting a car—“Kelly gave me the agency Visa”—and driving for seven hours.

  The nurse came back with discharge papers and told Wren that she’d have to leave the hospital in a wheelchair. “It’s policy.”

  Wren complained, but their dad just stood behind the wheelchair and said, “Do you want to argue or do you want to go home?”

  When the nurse buzzed them out into the waiting room, Cath felt her stomach jump and realized that she was half-expecting to see Laura still sitting out there. Fat chance, Cath thought.

  The doors opened, and Wren made a sobby little gasping noise. For a second Cath thought maybe Laura was still there. Or maybe Wren was trying to throw up again.

  There was a guy sitting in the waiting room with his head in his hands. He heard Wren’s gasp and looked up, then stood up, and Wren was out of the wheelchair, shuffling toward him. He took her in his arms and pushed his face down into her pukey hair.

  It was the big guy from Muggsy’s. The guy who threw punches. Cath couldn’t remember his name. Javier. Julio …

  “Who’s that?” her dad asked.

  “Jandro,” Cath said.

  “Ah,” he said, watching them hug. “Jandro.”

  “Yeah…” Cath hoped that it wasn’t Jandro who dropped Wren off at the emergency room, then left her alone. She hoped that he didn’t know anything about that bruise on her cheek.

  “Hey,” someone said, and Cath stepped aside, realizing she was standing in the middle of the hallway. “Hey,” he said again.

  She looked up—and into Levi’s smiling face.

  “Hey,” she said, and it almost came out with an exclamation point. “What are you doing here?”

  “I got your text—I texted you back.”

  “My phone’s dead.” Cath looked up at Levi’s crinkle-cut eyes and relieved smile, trying to take him all in.

  He was holding two cups of coffee and had a banana shoved into the pocket of his flannel shirt. “Mr. Avery?” he said, holding out a cup of coffee. “This was for Jandro, but it looks like he’s covered.”

  Her dad took the coffee. “Thanks. Levi.”

  “Levi,” Cath repeated, and she knew she was close to crying. “You didn’t have to come.”

  He made a loose fist and chucked her gently on the bottom of her chin, taking a half step toward her. “Yeah, I did.”

  Cath tried not to smile—but ended up smiling so wide, her ears almost popped.

  “They wouldn’t let me back,” he said. “Or Jandro. Only immediate family.”

  Cath nodded.

  “Is your sister okay?”

  “Yeah. Hungover. Embarrassed … We’re going back to Omaha now, all three of us.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You didn’t even know I was here.”

  “I know n
ow, and I’ll apply these feelings backwards. Thank you.… Did you miss your sister’s birthday party?”

  “No, it’s tomorrow after church. I’ll take a nap and head back that way—unless you need anything.”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  Cath laughed. “Are you about to offer me a banana?”

  “I’m about to offer you half a banana,” Levi said, letting go of her hand. He gave her the coffee and took the banana out of his pocket, peeling it. Cath glanced over at Wren. She was introducing their dad to Jandro. Wren looked like hell, but Jandro was looking at her like she was the Lady of the Lake. Levi handed Cath half a banana, and she took it. “Cheers,” he said, tapping his hand against hers.

  Cath ate the banana and held on to his gaze. “I’d give you the moon right now,” she said.

  Levi’s eyes flashed happily, and he hitched up an eyebrow. “Yeah, but would you slay it for me?”

  * * *

  Cath drove home. They drove through McDonald’s first, and her dad ordered two Filet-O-Fish sandwiches and said that neither of them could nag him about it.

  Wren grimaced. “I don’t even care if it’s bad for your cholesterol. It’s the smell that’s making me sick.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have drunk yourself into a bilious stupor,” their dad said. And that’s when Cath realized that he wasn’t going to pretend that nothing was wrong. That he wasn’t just going to let Wren go about her business.

  Cath smashed her cheeseburger against the steering wheel and was the only person on the interstate observing the speed limit.

  When they got home, Wren went straight in to take a shower.

  Her dad stood in the living room, looking lost. “You go next,” Cath told him. “I’m not that gross.”

  “We have to talk about all this,” he said. “Tonight. I mean, not you. You don’t. Wren and I have to talk. I should have talked to her at Christmas, but there was so much else going on—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t, Cath.”

  “It’s my fault, too. I hid it from you.”

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. “Not that well. I saw what she was doing.… I thought she’d, I don’t know, self-correct. That she’d get it out of her system.”

  His necktie had worked its way almost completely out of his pocket. “You should sleep,” Cath said. “Take a shower, then sleep.”

  Wren walked out of the bathroom wearing their dad’s robe and smiled feebly at them. Cath patted her dad’s arm, then followed Wren upstairs. When Cath got up to their room, Wren was standing at her dresser, impatiently riffling through a mostly empty drawer. “We don’t have any pajamas.”

  “Calm down, Junie B. Jones,” Cath said, walking over to her own dresser. “Here.” She handed Wren a T-shirt and a pair of shorts left over from high school gym.

  Wren changed and climbed into her bed. Cath crawled on top of the comforter beside her.

  “You smell like puke,” Wren said.

  “Yours,” Cath said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired.” Wren closed her eyes.

  Cath tapped softly on Wren’s forehead. “Was that your boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” Wren whispered. “Alejandro.”

  “Alejandro,” Cath said, breathing the j and rolling the r. “Have you been dating since last semester?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you out with him last night?”

  Wren shook her head. Tears were starting to pool between her eyelashes.

  “Who’d you go out with?”

  “Courtney.”

  “How’d you bruise your face?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “But it wasn’t Alejandro.”

  Wren’s eyes flew open. “God, Cath. No.” She squeezed her eyes shut again and flinched. “He’s probably going to break up with me. He hates it when I get drunk. He says it’s unbecoming.”

  “He didn’t look like he was going to break up with you this morning.”

  Wren took a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t think about it right now.”

  “Don’t,” Cath said. “Sleep.”

  Wren slept. Cath went downstairs. Her dad was already asleep. He’d skipped the shower.

  Cath felt inexplicably peaceful. The last thing Levi had said to her, when they’d parted in the hospital lobby, was, “Plug in your phone.” So Cath did. Then she started some laundry.

  “We can’t be friends,” Baz said, passing Simon the ball.

  “Why not?” Simon asked, kicking the ball up and bouncing it on his knee.

  “Because we’re already enemies.”

  “It’s not like we have to stay that way. There isn’t a rule.”

  “There is a rule,” Baz said. “I made it myself. Don’t be friends with Snow. He already has too many.” He shouldered Simon out of the way and caught the ball on his own knee.

  “You’re infuriating,” Simon said.

  “Good. I’m fulfilling my role as your nemesis.”

  “You’re not my nemesis. The Humdrum is.”

  “Hmmm,” Baz said, letting the ball drop and kicking it back to Simon. “We’ll see. The story’s not over yet.”

  —from “Baz, You Like It,” posted September 2008 by FanFixx.net authors Magicath and Wrenegade

  THIRTY

  “We don’t need to talk about this,” Wren said.

  “You were just hospitalized for alcohol poisoning,” their dad said. “We’re talking about it.”

  Cath set a stack of foil-wrapped burritos on the table between them, then sat down at the head of the table.

  “There’s nothing to say,” Wren insisted. She still looked terrible. There were circles under her eyes, and her skin was waxy and yellow. “You’re just going to say that I shouldn’t drink that much, and then I’m going to say that you’re right—”

  “No,” their dad interrupted, “I’m going to say that you shouldn’t drink at all.”

  “Well, that’s not very realistic.”

  He smacked his fist on the table. “Why the hell not?”

  Wren sat back in her chair and took a second to recover. He’d never cursed at either of them. “Everybody drinks,” she said calmly. The Only Rational One.

  “Your sister doesn’t.”

  Wren rolled her eyes. “Forgive me, but I’m not going to spend my college years sitting soberly in my dorm room, writing about gay magicians.“

  “Objection,” Cath said, reaching for a burrito.

  “Sustained,” their dad said. “Your sister has a four-point-oh, Wren. And a very polite boyfriend. She’s doing just fine with her college years.”

  Wren’s head whipped around. “You have a boyfriend?”

  “You haven’t met Levi?” Their dad sounded surprised—and sad. “Are you guys even talking?”

  “You stole your roommate’s boyfriend?” Wren’s eyes were big.

  “It’s a long story,” Cath said.

  Wren kept staring at her. “Have you kissed him?”

  “Wren,” their dad said. “I’m serious about this.”

  “What do you want me to say? I drank too much.”

  “You’re out of control,” he said.

  “I’m fine. I’m just eighteen.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “You’re coming back home.”

  Cath almost spit out her carnitas.

  “I am not,” Wren said.

  “You are.”

  “You can’t make me,” she said, managing to sound at least twelve.

  “I can, actually.” He was tapping his fingers so hard on the table, it looked painful. “I’m your father. I’m pulling rank. I should have done this a long time ago, but better late than never, I guess—I’m your father.”

  “Dad,” Cath whispered.

  “No,” he said, staring at Wren. “I am not letting this happen to you. I’m not taking a call like that again. I’m not spending every weekend from now on, wondering where you are and
who you’re with, and whether you’re even sober enough to know when you’ve landed in the gutter.”

  Cath had seen her dad this mad before—heard him rant, watched him wave his arms around, cursing, steam pouring out of his ears—but it was never about them. It was never at them.

  “This was a warning,” he said, stabbing his finger at Wren, nearly shouting. “This was your canary in the goddamn coal mine. And you’re trying to ignore it. What kind of father would I be if I sent you back to that school, knowing you hadn’t learned your lesson?”

  “I’m eighteen!” Wren shouted. Cath thought this was probably a bad strategy.

  “I don’t care!” he shouted back. “You’re still my daughter.”

  “It’s the middle of the semester. I’ll fail all my classes.”

  “You weren’t worried about school or your future when you were poisoning yourself with tequila.”

  She cocked her head. “How did you know I was drinking tequila?”

  “Christ, Wren,” he sighed bitterly. “You smelled like a margarita blender.”

  “You kinda still do,” Cath muttered.

  Wren planted her elbows on the table and hid her face in her hands. “Everybody drinks,” she said stubbornly.

  Their dad pushed his chair back. “If that’s all you have to say for yourself, then all I have to say is—you’re coming home.”

  He got up and went into his room, slamming the door.

  Wren let her head and her hands fall to the table.

  Cath scooted her chair closer. “Do you want some aspirin?”

  Wren was quiet for a few seconds. “Why aren’t you mad at me?”

  “Why should I be mad at you?” Cath asked.

  “You’ve been mad at me since November. Since July.”

  “Well, I’m done now. Does your head hurt?”

  “You’re done?” Wren turned her head toward Cath, her cheek lying on the table.

  “You scared me last night,” Cath said. “And I decided that I never want to drift that far away from you again. What if you’d died? And I hadn’t talked to you for three months?”

  “I wasn’t going to die.” Wren rolled her eyes again.

  “Dad’s right,” Cath said. “You sound like a moron.”

  Wren looked down, rubbing her face in her wrist. “I’m not going to stop drinking.”