Page 63 of The Photograph

A torso and jeans appear next to the bed and then a hand hovers in my peripheral vision before touching my head. Steve’s crotch is at eye level and I track up his body, coming to rest on his face. His pale, bruised eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Des.”

“What?” This time my voice is a rough croak.

“That dealer gave us some bad stuff. George woke up to find you shaking beside him, like a fit, and then you threw up and kept throwing up, so we called 911.”

I was in bed with George?

“Yeah, I remember a bright light and an ambulance.” I stretch out my hand. “You were with me.”

He snags my fingers in his. “I wanted to keep an eye on you. They’d only let one of us go with you to the hospital.”

“Where’s George now?”

“No doubt having a crisis somewhere.” He rolls his eyes.

My laugh comes out rusty and sore. Steve squeezes my hand. “Honestly, that guy. When you two got together, I hoped he’d change. He was so starry-eyed about you. God, I was disgusted when you guys broke up.”

“Steve, you slept with him all through that time! I mean …”

He shakes his head. “Notallthrough that time. He was faithful to start off with. I do think he really tried.”

I nod at this, but it’s water under the bridge now. Despite the nausea still churning inside, the idea that I’ve moved on from all that warms something in my core.

Steve nods at my phone. “It’s been buzzing on and off all night. It rang too, but I didn’t think I should answer.”

He picks it up from the bedside table, pressing it into my hand and I squint at it.

Alex.Twelve missed calls and a stream of WhatsApp messages. They start off apologetic and become more and more anxious:

Des, I’m really sorry.

I should have told you about all this. I’m sorry.

I don’t know why you’re not responding, but I guess it’s bad.

I’ll never forgive myself if I’ve messed this up.

Des, please talk to me. Even if I’ve fucked this up, I need to know.

Am I over my drama? I tap in a message:

I’m in the hospital.

The typing starts immediately. Like he was waiting for me. I have no idea what time it is.

Oh my God, Des. Where?

Followed by:

R U okay?

I look down at the honeycomb weave blanket.

I’m fine.

I type.At least I think I am.

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