Opposite of Always(48)

But then I feel her body quiver.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Just felt weird for a second. I think it’s passed.”

“You sure?”

“Let’s just dance.”

But the song’s not over when Kate leads me out into the foyer.

The door still closing, she says, “I have to go, Jack. Like, right now.”

“Go where?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

But she’s already retreating down the corridor, her breath jagged, eyes anguished. “I’m sorry to do this to you.”

“I don’t understand. Where are you going?”

She jabs the elevator call button. “I’m sorry.”

“Wait, tell me what’s happening.”

“This was a mistake. I can’t be with you. Not the way you want. I’m sorry, Jack. I shouldn’t have come. You should just forget me, okay? Just forget me.”

The elevator chimes open. Kate steps inside and slips off her heels, squeezing them in the same hand as her clutch. And she’s mashing the buttons as if the doors can’t close fast enough, as though she can’t be away from me soon enough.

“Kate, wait,” I yell. “I can’t forget you. I could never forget you.” I wedge my arm between the doors.

“Please, Jack, just let me go,” she snaps.

“Wait, just tell me one thing. Are you okay?”

“What are you talking about?”

Good question. “I don’t know. Are you feeling sick or . . . unwell? I just . . .”

“I’m feeling like I shouldn’t be here, Jack. Nothing else.”

“But . . .”

“Please, let me go.”

I step back from the elevator because what else is there to do? The doors close, Kate disappearing right before my eyes.

And it’s like when you don’t clean the chalkboard well enough, and you can still see the ghost of what was written before; I can’t erase the last prom from my brain. I can’t let Kate leave alone. I slap the elevator-down button but there’s only two elevators and one hasn’t budged off the tenth floor and the other is currently making its sweet descent to the lobby, where it will deposit Kate into the shiny night.

I push open the heavy stairwell door and I run, trip, and stumble down. I’m a speeding, heavily sweating torpedo, and I’m locked on my target. I explode into the gold-gilded lobby, my head on a pivot, sweat flinging left and right, and I possibly induce a heart attack in an old woman alarmed by my bluster, only I’m busy staring at Kate’s empty elevator.

I burst through the brass front doors, cool night air invades my lungs, and there’s Kate, standing beside a cab. Kate sees me as she slips in, pulls the door closed.

The cab’s rear lights, two bright-red exclamation points stamping Kate’s departure.

I collapse onto the concrete.

Like newly asphalted roadkill.

My heart raging.

And I can’t breathe.

I can’t do anything right. Not even breathe.

And then tires screech. I sit up in time to see the cab reverse violently into the hotel drive, kicking grass onto the sidewalk.

Kate came back.

The cabbie hops out, yells, “You’re Jack?”

I stand. “That’s me.”

“Call 9-1-1!”

I scream into the lobby, “Call an ambulance! Call 9-1-1 now!” I race down the front hotel stairs, yank open the back-seat door.

Kate’s lying there, chest heaving, her face clenched. “Kate, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”

The cab driver is muttering. “Does she need an inhaler or something? Please, God, help this child.”

“Jack . . .”

“Kate, tell me what to do.”

But she’s barely there.

“Kate, talk to me.”

“Jack,” she says, feebly. “Stay with me.”

“I’m never leaving.” I crawl into the cab, gently lift her head from the seat, set it onto my lap.

Somewhere in the near distance, sirens shriek.

“Kate, you’re going to be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I don’t know if I should try to keep her talking, or if I should tell her to conserve her energy. I don’t know anything. Why don’t I know anything?

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” I say, stroking her hair. “Just breathe, Kate. Nice and easy, okay. Nice and easy.”

“Hey, what’s happening, man?” It’s Franny. “You guys okay?”

I shake my head. “Something’s wrong with Kate.”

“Oh my God,” Jillian says, leaning into the doorframe. “Did someone call for help?”

“It’s on its way,” I say to my friends. “Help is on the way,” I repeat near Kate’s ear, wisps of her hair clinging to my cheek.

The siren is right on top of us.

I look through the rear window, only to see nearly our entire senior class standing on the hotel stairs, clasping their faces and each other.

A pair of paramedics appear and place an oxygen mask over Kate’s face, and all I can see are her eyes, earthy and wet.

“Make a lane, people,” the husky paramedic barks. They quickly deposit Kate onto a stretcher and hustle her toward their squad.