“Oh God! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Ellery! Ellery!”
Sam’s voice was fading in and out. She was crying and pleading at the same time. I couldn’t see but my ears were working.
“I’m sorry, man.”
Trevor’s voice was apologetic too. Then he spoke soothingly to Sam.
“Just give her some space. She’s gonna to be all right.”
Sam was still having frightened hysterics.
“Honey, she’s gonna be fine. Look, she’s sitting up. It’s fine. She’s fine.”
I was in a sitting position, but a very loose interpretation of that pose, doubled over, my legs wide apart and bent. It felt like I was having a dream about throwing up and choking and being beaten all at the same time. It was painful and awful and gross and embarrassing and the scopophobic sensation was all over it.
Great.
I played high low in my mind with how many people might be gathered around me, rubber-necking. I was not fine—Trevor was delusional. I was the opposite of fine. I was still coughing convulsively but the beating on my back had stopped. I couldn’t bear to open my eyes. I took a chance and started to slump, hoping somebody would catch me, but if I happened to knock myself out, that would be good too, maybe better.
“Okay. Let’s get you to a chair,” Trevor directed.
His voice sounded authoritative and calm. If no one had been paying attention, as I suspected, he would get all the credit for my rescue and none of the blame for being one of the culprits in the first place.
I kept my eyes closed tight and purposely made myself into dead weight, not helping a bit. I wanted them to sweat. I would have loved to play dead, but I couldn’t control the coughing—just one of the many facets of disappointment the evening had produced.
I was placed in a chair. I could feel Sam’s hands on me as she was putting towel after towel over and around me. Then she was on her knees in front of me holding my hand.
“Ellery?” I had smoothed out some. The coughing was toning down, starting to recede.
“Yes?”
My voice broke, even in a one-syllable reply.
It hurt to talk. My nose and throat burned terribly. I opened my eyes to her upset face, streaked with tears.
“I’m so sorry.”
She was still crying.
Oh whatever.
“Sam?” It hurt but I had to say it anyway—I sounded like the Albino dungeon guy from the movie Princess Bride.
“Yes?”
Her red-rimmed wet eyes were wary.
“Are you sure you don’t hate me?”
I couldn’t stifle the sarcasm, but it made me smile. She laughed and sniffed, shaking her head vigorously.
She rose and leaned into me, wrapping her arms tightly around my middle. So tight, in fact that it was difficult to breathe. My prideful side wanted to be angry and indignant about the attempted involuntary manslaughter thing, but the vulnerable, lonely, affection starved emotional refugee was, ironically, the stronger side of me, and would take even more oxygen deprivation, welcome it really, if that was the price for feeling loved. I couldn’t imagine a better bargain.