Full Tilt (Full Tilt #1)(31)
I had to make him see. I held onto my brother, clutched him tight. He was solid and real, while I was already dissipating into the air, particle by particle. “Don’t let me vanish, Theo. Please. Help me…”
Theo’s eyes flared at my words, and his grip on my arms became painful. “I’ll help you,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll help you. Anything you want or need…I’m here. And so are you. You’re not going to vanish, Jonah. Goddammit, you’re not.”
I nodded and sucked in several draughts of air.
“Okay. Okay, thanks. I’m sorry, I panicked but I’m good now. Sorry. Let’s go. We can go now.”
I started walking and Theo had no choice but to follow. I could feel him watching me like a hawk. The solidity of him calmed me more. Not his anger, that was a shield between himself and the world, but what lay beneath. His devotion to those he loved. Unwavering and unbreakable. Permanent.
The blood drained from my head and my borrowed heart settled down. Still it ticked away the time with each beat. I had a finite number of pulses that could be counted and measured.
Six months.
I can do this, I thought as we climbed into Theo’s pick-up truck. If I made a schedule and kept to it. If I worked as much as I could, no stops, I’d make it. I’d leave something behind. I wouldn’t vanish into thin air, I’d use my air to infuse and shape the molten glass, capture my breath within it, and when it hardened, a part of me would remain locked inside forever.
Forever, I thought, feeling a little of the heavy weight lift, a lessening of the dark shadow trailing me, even in the bright sunshine of the desert. A little bit of hope to carry me through. A purpose.
It was time to get to work.
The gather of glass on my pipe dripped back into the furnace, jerking me from my thoughts. Like the glass, my life had been molten and malleable and full of potential. Now it was solidified; fired and hardened. No re-firing. No starting over with someone new because there was no time for someone new to become someone significant. I had my installation. Something that endured, that wouldn’t wither and die. Something that lasted. The memory was more than a year old, but nothing had changed. It was time to get to work.
“Let’s grab some lunch and keep going,” I told Theo.
His eyebrows rose. “Yeah? I thought you were going to—”
“I’ll text Kacey and tell her I have to work through. She can order a pizza or something,” I said, ignoring the ugly feeling in my gut, the guilt that hung heavy in my heart for ditching her.
Theo rubbed his jaw, looking like someone who’d fought to get his way and now felt bad about it. “If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I have to stay on schedule.”
And that was the truth.
End of story.
I took a shower to wash last night off of me. All of it: the show, the booze, and how I’d thrown myself at Jonah. After, I wrapped myself in one towel, made a turban over my hair with another, and stepped out of the steam. I swiped the foggy mirror over the sink to see my reflection. My hand lingered on the warm glass. On the other side were Jonah’s medications.
He trusted me with them, and that made me feel good about myself in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. But thinking about Jonah’s actual heart transplant made my guts twist, like I’d just tossed back something super strong on an empty stomach. Terrible medical catastrophes struck innocent young people every day, but this one seemed like some cosmic screw-up. A terrible mistake. I couldn’t work out why the situation felt so wrong.
I moved my hand to the bare skin above my towel. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have someone else’s heart beating in my chest. Did it feel like his own? Could he feel it wasn’t? Once, when I was a kid, I accidentally swallowed an ice cube. I felt the cold hard rock of it in my chest as it went down. I wondered if Jonah felt that way—not the cold, but the presence of something hard and heavy and foreign in his chest.
You’re being stupid, I told myself. I’m sure it doesn’t feel any different. Or it feels better. His old heart was sick. The new one has given him life.
The thought bolstered me a bit, though the suspicion of something being not quite right didn’t leave me.
I put on cut-off shorts and a tank top, and exited the bathroom. But for the AC churning on the window, the apartment was silent. Peaceful. I sat on the couch to admire Jonah’s beautiful glass on the coffee table. I picked up the nautical paperweight, the sea life forever suspended in a quiet ocean.
Worlds away.
Twenty-four hours ago, my residence had been one of five bedrooms in the Summerlin house, the halls echoing with dozens of voices, loud music, and drunken laughter at all hours. I wasn’t the only partier in our group—just the most dedicated. My room in that house was trashed: clothes strewn all over, makeup messes in the bathroom. The only glass around wasn’t delicate art, but overflowing ashtrays, or empty bottles littering the floors.
The peaceful quiet of Jonah’s apartment seeped into me. I absorbed it, tried to bank it, sock it away for later, when I had to hit the road again.
My chest tightened at the thought of saying goodbye to Jonah. I’d only known him for a handful of hours, but it felt like longer. I was different around him than I was with other men. Instead of engaging in a fumbling, grasping union of bodies in a drunken haze, we talked. It felt like laying the foundation of something more lasting. Jonah had some magic quality about him that let me feel like myself. I liked being around him and I think he liked hanging out with me. Given time, who knew what might come of it?