Page 18 of The Last Kind of Kiss
“Lils, look at me. Breathe. What’s going on?”
I’m one second away from throwing her in the car and driving her to the emergency room. She’s swaying on her feet, blinking at me like it’s taking all the effort in the world to hone her attention, and the smallest bead of sweat dapples her temple.
She pauses, and whether that’s to come up with a convincing enough excuse or because her brain’s malfunctioning, I have no idea. “Nothing’s going on,” she murmurs weakly.
“Bullshit,” I hiss. “You’re swaying on your feet.”
Lila briefly glances down at her heels—fighting gravity like she’s goddamn seasick—and has the gall to continue lying straight to my face. “I’m fine. Just lightheaded.”
I can tell she wants to use me as an anchor, but she doesn’t reach out to balance herself. So I keep my hands on her shoulders, hoping that her knees don’t buckle underneath her. What does she mean “lightheaded”? Why would she be lightheaded?It’s not hot in here by any means. Stuffy? Yes. Musty? Unfortunately. But hot? No.
I’m a person who prides myself on how well I keep my emotions in check. Those babies are under lock and key, alright? But right now, my grip on sanity is slowly but steadily loosening.
I try to pick my next words carefully, but I can’t help the urgency behind them. “What are you talking about?”
She swallows thickly. “Just…don’t feel well.”
“Alright, I’m taking you home.” I brook no room for argument as I pull her into me, more than willing to carry her bridal-style out the door if I have to, but nothing’s ever easy with her. She squirms, slams the heels of her palms into my chest, then pushes me away.
“I can’t leave. This gala is important to me, to my career. Not that I’d expect you to understand.”
“I do understand, Lila. More than you give me credit for. But prioritizing some ridiculous ball over your health is downright stupid, even for you.”
Maybe it’s because my heart’s halfway up my throat, but I don’t realize the harshness of my words until the damage has already been done. Hitting her in the face with a sledgehammer probably would’ve been less painful. That wounded expression of hers mixed with the way she turtles in on herself has bile pooling on my tongue.
“Fuck you, Bristol,” she snarls, shoving her way past me, but she doesn’t get very far before she crashes into the side of my body without warning. I catch her before she falls, feeling a lance of pain shoot up my arm from where she grabs me. A second later and she would’ve collapsed onto the floor, and then the night would’vereallybeen ruined. She buries her face into my chest, and maybe it’s because of the near-disaster adrenaline rush, but I soak up the feeling of her in my arms, knowing thatit’ll take a miracle for me to experience something like this again.
Feeling faint? Check. Looking like death itself? Check. Curt responses? Check, but also a Lila specialty.
I begin to connect the dots like red string on an evidence board. “Have you eaten today?” I ask her, still holding her close as I prepare myself for the verbal smackdown I’m about to get.
She looks up at me, realizes that we’re in a compromising position, and immediately recoils. “Of course I did. What kind of question is that?”
“Have you been hydrating?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Then either you’re secretly anemic—which I doubt is true—you’re currently having a stroke, or you’ve developed vertigo from the moment we stepped onto the red carpet up until now. And Iknowyou have half a mind not to continue lying to me.”
Lila rubs out the tension crease between her eyebrows, seeming to internally debate which answer will garner the least volatile response from me, but she doesn’t get to say anything before her stomach lets out an angry-sounding rumble. I don’t think she realizes it was loud enough for me to hear, even above all this background noise.
I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. “Alright, what did you eat today?”
She backpedals. “Huh?”
“What did you eat for lunch?”
I would’ve taken any answer—even ice cream, for fuck’s sake—but the silence that elapses between us is self-explanatory. When she finally has the gall to open her mouth, I shut her down.
“Why don’t you try eating something? It’ll make you feel better,” I suggest, reaching out to grab one of the prosciutto-wrapped asparaguses.
She forfeits an exasperated sigh, a canyon furrowed between her brows. “Look, I can’t eat right now, okay? It’ll look bad on camera, and this dress isn’t stretchy.”
I speed through worry like a California stop sign, and now anger riots inside me, heating me up in this suddenly too-tight suit. Lila’s never acted this way before—at least not around me. I know the modeling industry can be tough on a person’s self-esteem, but I always thought she was one of those girls who beat the system. Now I’m questioning how much I truly know her.
I let my arm fall away, and my admiring gaze softens when it roves over her. “You look fucking amazing, okay? Hell, the minute you stepped into this ballroom, everyone’s eyes were on you. They weren’t on me. They weren’t on any other model. They were onyou. Because you’re exquisite. And it’s not because of some flashy dress you wear—it’s because you’re so goddamn captivating that people want to be near you just to get a taste of what it means to be extraordinary.”
Lila’s eyes go as wide as saucers, and the tiniest frown downturns her mouth, begging me to kiss the pain away. She lowers that guard of hers ever so slightly, allowing me a glimpse of her inner light, but each warm, vulnerable beam gets swallowed up by an indefinite darkness that I can’t dissipate.
