Page 39 of In the Net
But the message I see when I check my notifications isn’t from Harper.
It’s something much, much worse …
16
HARPER
Aknock at my door wakes me up.
I sit up in bed. Only dim orange light from the streetlamp outside filters through the window. Checking the bedside clock, I find that it’s almost midnight.
The knocks sound again, hard and insistent against my door.
Is it Sebastian? Why would he be checking on me this late at night? I fling off my covers and approach the door.
“Hello?” I ask. There’s some caution in my tone because, after all, I am in a different country and this is a sudden, loud knocking on my door in the middle of the night. Not the most comforting scenario in the world.
“Harper.” It’s clearly Sebastian’s voice saying my name from the hallway. But the way he sounds has concern prickling up my back. His voice is spent, his speech slurred.
I open the door. My lips part in surprise when I see him.
His hair is disheveled, tufts tangled and sticking up, like he’s spent the last couple hours running his fingers through it. His shoulders are slumped, his weight supported by leaning against the wall next to my door. His brow is damp with sweat, his eyesare glossy, and his face is flushed, obviously from having drunk way too much alcohol, because he reeks of it.
“Geeze, Sebastian,” I say, scrunching my nose. “You know our flight is tomorrow, right?”
“I … there …” he’s trying to say something, but can’t get the words out. And it’s not just because all the alcohol he’s clearly consumed is making his speech slurred. His voice sounds choked with emotion in a way that has my heart clenching with worry.
“Come in,” I tell him. After he takes one step past the doorjamb, I realize I have to hold his arm for support with the way he’s stumbling.
I curl my arm around his, feeling the thick, jagged muscles against my skin. I shoulder him to my bed, where he plops down like a sack of potatoes. Sebastian rolls onto his back, and the palm of his right hand goes to his face, clasping it over his eyes. His jaw muscles pop like he’s grinding his teeth.
This isn’t good. Something’s wrong with him. Did he drink so much that he has alcohol poisoning?
“Sebastian, why in the world did you drink so much?” Even back at Brumehill, I’ve never known him to go overboard like this, not even at one of the house party ragers his team likes to throw.
“Because I … he … when I saw …” His words are still slurred, but again, that’s not what really has my chest clenching. It’s the choked sound of pain, of hurt, the way his voice cracks each time he trails off and tries to form a new thought, that has concern shooting through me.
I kneel next to him, my knees on the floor while he’s crumpled on the bed. He rakes his palm down his face, dragging his glasses down his nose. His eyes are watery, and so much emotion swims in them.
I remove his glasses so he doesn’t break them, setting them on the bedside table. Grabbing him by the shoulders, I force him to sit up. He slumps forward, elbows on his knees and hands spearing into the thick tufts of his black hair.
“Tell me what happened,” I say.
His eyes find mine, and the turmoil boiling in them steals my breath.
“Bryce,” he says.
Panic floods through my veins. His former best friend. Someone I grew up with, too, and still think of as a friendly acquaintance. Someone I’m always happy to see when I go back home.
“What happened to him?” I ask, my voice thick with urgency.
He opens his mouth, but his throat is too clogged with emotion for any words to come through.
Immediately, my mind jumps to the worst conclusion.
I’m friends with Bryce on Instagram. I get my phone, thinking that if something truly awful did happen, there might be news on there.
Maybe that’s how Sebastian found out about it. When I pull up the app, sure enough, a post from Bryce’s account is at the top of my feed, already with comments and reactions from just about everyone else I’m still following from our hometown.
