Page 155 of It Happened on a Sunday
“It’s nice to meet you, too?” It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.
“Look to the left, please,” she says with a reassuring smile. “Now the right.”
“Oxycodone?” I repeat, feeling like I’ve somehow landed in the middle of a test where I’ve missed all the important information. “I don’t do oxy—”
“It happened at the party,” Marco tells me. “Someone spiked your drink.”
“Someone spiked my drink?” I repeat, mind racing. I almost never put my drink down when I’m somewhere, just to keep shit like this from happening, but maybe—
“Vivian,” Sly tells me, his voice completely flat. “My agent slipped you enough oxycodone to kill you.”
“The fuck?Vivian?” Looks like something can shock me after all.
Except, honestly, I’m not sure I’m even surprised. She made it more than obvious she hated me from the second we met. Not likeI hate you so much I want to murder you, but also notnotlike that, either. Huh. This life of mine just keeps getting weirder.
“Are you okay?” Sly asks.
“I don’t know. Am I?” I ask Lena, gesturing to the IV and all the monitors. “I mean, I feel okay.”
“Your responses are good,” Lena assures me. “But I’m going toget the doctor and let him check you out. I’m sure he’ll be able to answer your questions.”
“I’m texting the others to let them know she’s up,” Marco says as his thumbs fly over his phone. “Do you want me to text your family as well, Sly?”
“That’d be great,” Sly answers.
“Others?” I ask at the exact same time.
“Most of your team is here,” Sly tells me. “Pauline and the others go to a hotel at night, but the rest of the time they’ve set up Sloane Walker Headquarters in a conference room on the second floor. They rotate up here to check on you every couple of hours.”
It takes a second for his words to sink in. “At night? Every couple of hours? How long have I been here?”
“You came in on Thursday night. It’s early Sunday morning.” Sly reaches a hand out to stroke my hair, like he can’t quite believe I’m awake—or even alive.
“Sunday morning?” I squeak. “I’ve been out of it for three days?”
“Two and a half, but yeah.” He nods. “Close to three days.”
For the first time, I register how haggard Sly looks. His hair is sticking up, he’s got massive bags under his eyes, his clothes are wrinkled, and his beard has gone far beyond the five-o’clock shadow I know and love.
“Have you been here the whole time?” I ask, shocked.
“Where else could I be, Sloane? I wasn’t going to leave you alone. Not when there was a chance you might…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. “It was really that bad?” I ask, looking between him and Marco. “I could have died?”
“Youalmostdied,” Sly clarifies. “From the oxy and then from the hematoma.”
“Holy shit.” Horror sweeps through me, not at the fact that Inearly died—I’m still here, after all—but I can’t believe what Sly must have gone through. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” he repeats incredulously. “My agent drugged you with enough oxycodone to stop a racehorse, and you’re telling meyou’resorry?”
“I—”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Don’t ever say those words to me again. Ever.”
“Ever?” I look at Marco, who shoots me awhat are you complaining about?look. “What if we have a fight and it’s my fault? Or I write a mean song and make people bully you on TikTok?”
“I don’t care.” Sly shakes his head vehemently. “After what Vivian did, you’ve got immunity for life.”
