Page 90 of Too Safe

I knock quietly, unsure of what I’m doing or why. Decker finished the game. The Crusaders won. And not a soul has mentioned any cause for concern.

But I know what I saw. And there’s this nagging in my gut that insists I check up on him.

There’s a special flavor of dread to being sure but having absolutely no way to prove or disprove the notion. It’s the antithesis of belief.

To believe someone or something makes it so. On the contrary, disbelief has the power to dispel people, places, or things from existence. Authority, influence, and control all exist in the realm of belief—of power. It’s the elusiveness of instinct that makes it so disconcerting.

If instinct nudges a disbelieving person toward the truth, the reaction is one of regret. If instinct misdirects, there’s a sense of betrayal.

Right or wrong. Truth or fiction. Instinct is rarely a welcome reflex.

Unless it’s a game of Clue, exclaiming “I knew it!” doesn’t do anyone any good, because confirmation doesn’t come until it’s too late.

A sense of urgency washes over me when I knock again and get no answer.

Pushing into the room, I call out his name. “Hey, Decker? Are you in here? It’s Josephine.”

I’m greeted by darkness. Darkness and silence.

Defeated, I turn on my heel and pull the door shut.

But then I hear it. A guttural, painful groan.

Chapter 37

Josephine

“I’mfine,”heinsistsagain, head still hanging in the toilet.

“You’re very clearly not,” I whisper.

He winces at the sound anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I say, softer still. “But I really think—”

“Shh,” he hushes me, whether because his head is pounding or because he doesn’t want to hear it, I’m not sure.

“Decker. Please. You need help.”

“No.”

“Decker…” I don’t know why I’m pleading with him, or why I even care. Maybe I feel a strange sort of responsibility, considering I’m the only person who knows what’s going on.

But I won’t be the only one for long if he keeps this up. I’m not above texting Locke or even Kendrick to come help me, and I know they’ll insist we take him to a hospital.

I’ve been huddled near the toilet in Decker’s palatial black and gold bathroom for almost an hour. My legs are tingly from the loss of circulation, but I’m not concerned about anything but the man beside me right now. I have no idea how long he was in here before I showed up.

From what I’ve gotten out of him so far, he felt off after the hit (his word choice) but recovered quickly and was fine after the time-out.

The nausea hit on the boat ride home. Sensitivity to light and sound followed.

I know firsthand the unnerving agitation that accompanies a concussion, even a minor one. The battle of wills between us would be daunting without the crankiness brought on by the injury. But with it? I feel like I’m wading through a master class in patience as I try to convince an agitated, restless, uncoordinated Decker Crusade to seek medical attention.

“Fuck.” And with that, another wave of vomit hits the toilet bowl. He groans again, likely because of the way the action makes his head pound.

I’m desperate for a way to comfort him and to force him to face the reality of the situation. Because regardless of his stubbornness, he needs medical attention.

“You’re okay,” I murmur, cuffing the back of his neck with my hand.

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