Kate

---

I pound on Wes’s door—no answer. Fuck. He’s not in his room, not in the bar... Where else would he be?

Max sounded urgent on the phone. Panicked, even: it’s bad. You round up Wes—I’ll find Carson. We need to.... Just get here.

What could possibly be worse than yesterday?—worse than seeing Rachel like that?

And where the hell is Wes?

A text pops up on my phone: whqts te bug emrgcny?—and another: im in the lobby.

Bug emrgcny? If he’s drunk, I swear to God....

Wes staggers into view as I step off the elevator. He looks like he’s been drinking all day. Smells like it too, even from ten paces back.

“Oh. Kate.” He regards me blearily. “Your face—you....”

I lean back to keep him from poking me in the eye. Instead of touching my stitches, he falls into my arms. With some difficulty, I set him back on his feet. He’s swaying, weaving—this won’t do. “You need to take a cold shower. Have some coffee. I’ll let Max know we’ll be late.”

He laughs. “Mmm...Maxwell House. How’s he holding up?” A goofy grin splits his face. “Good to the last drop?”

Oh, hell. Not this again. “Ssh—come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“I was thinking about that on the plane. About Matt and his stupid nicknames.” Wes slumps against me, still giggling. “Y’know, I got called a lot of names, these last couple of days, by some folks with every reason to hate me, but none of ‘em stung quite like—”

“Tch—don’t think about it.”

“—like Skidmarks.”

I wince. I was there the first time Matt called him that. It was right at the height of Matt’s reign of terror, and we’d made a pact: Wes wasn’t to be left alone. So I was walking him to his English class when Matt shouldered past him—out of the way, Skidmarks! And Wes’s face fell, and everyone turned to look, and Matt saw how much it upset him—that might’ve been the beginning of the end.

“You have no idea how badly I wanted to be one of the clean kids...the shiny kids, with their—with their perfect hair, and their...their clothes that didn’t come from the Salvation Army.” He trips, and I catch him. “I’d never have been...unwashed. Especially like that. I—”

“I know.”

“You don’t.” He stumbles to a halt, halfway into the elevator. The doors try to close and bump his elbows. A buzzer goes off.

“Come on—you’ll get squished. Or ripped in half.”

Wes wriggles out of my grasp. “You don’t get it. Our dog had fleas—Matt’s dad was our vet. We couldn’t afford deodorant one week, I’m the fucking BO guy. He’d rub dog shit on my seat so I’d smell like....” The doors shut on him again. He flings out his arms with an incoherent shout. “I was filth to him. And I haven’t been able to scrub it off, not in ten years—maybe not ever.”

People are starting to stare. I grab him by the lapels and yank him into the elevator. “Do I need to slap you?”

Wes sags. He shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”

“Okay—then I need you to listen.” I tap him under the chin to get him to look up. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah.” There’s a sulky note to his voice, like he’s fifteen again.

“This is what he does. The blackmailer. He preys on our vulnerabilities. Throws our insecurities in our faces. Being broke doesn’t make you dirty or gross.” I straighten out his lapels and brush imaginary lint off his shoulders. “Look at you. You’re spotless. Not a stain or a scuff—not a single flake of dandruff. And your tie—check out that perfect Windsor knot.”

He looks down at himself, all owlish confusion. “I’ll probably have to pawn it. Do pawnshops take ties?”

“No. And, hey—even if you had to trade in your Burberry for Old Navy, you’d make it work. You’re not that kid any more.” I tousle his hair. “Not to mention which, you’ve got me. I’d never let you fall that far. None of us would.”

“Unless you fall with me.” He fidgets with his tie, loosening the knot. “And you will. He’s a black hole. We’re a doomed constellation.”

“Very poetic.” The elevator reaches our floor, and I herd him off. “Come on. Let’s get you sober.”

Wes drops his keycard twice, trying to get into his room. I take it from him and let him in. He stands in the hall, eyes darting between the bathroom and the bed, like he’s not sure where to go.

“Shower first. I’ll make the coffee.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “I think....” His legs give out on him, and he slumps heavily against the wall. “Don’t think I’m going to make it.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“No.” He sinks to his knees. “Been drinking since the plane. So...eight hours up there, another five, six on the ground....” A woeful whine escapes him. “I’m still drunk, and I already have a hangover. Just lay me down with a barf bucket. I’ll be fine.”

He does look awful. Worse, in the bright light from the bathroom.

“Let’s at least put you to bed.”

Wes stretches out his arms like a toddler wanting to be picked up. I help him to his feet, and together, we shuffle across the room. One of his shoes falls off along the way. I deposit him on the bed as carefully as I can, but he’s practically dead weight in my arms. He ends up face down in the pillows.

I nudge at his shoulder. “Turn over.”

“Mmph. Go away.”

“You need to roll onto your side.” I tug a little harder, and he co-operates this time, curling up like a shrimp. “Try and get some sleep, huh?”

“Room’s spinning.”

I empty out the ice bucket and set it down beside him. “Just in case.”

Wes grunts.

“It’ll be all right. You’ll see. You’ll sleep this off, and by morning, you’ll be your old self again.” I pull off his other shoe and set to work on his coat. Already, he’s breaking out in a sick sweat.

“Stay with me?”

Fuck. I want to—I really do. Leaving my pukey, weepy best friend to his misery...that’s low. But Max sounded desperate on the phone. Whatever Rachel sent him, it can’t have been good. Oh, God—what if it wasn’t just for her? What if there was another video?—or instructions for the rest of us? I need to get over there.

“Kate?”

Wes’s portable alarm clock’s flashing half past five. I can stay a while. “Till you fall asleep?”

“Thanks.” He rubs his clammy face on the pillow with a deep groan. My hand moves in soothing circles on his back. I’ve hushed him to sleep this way before: after his dad’s accident—we barely knew each other then. And again, after Matt, in the locker room—the incident, we called it. It’s working now, as it did then. I can feel his breathing evening out.

My phone vibrates in my purse, but Max can wait. He’ll understand: he’ll have to. He’d have done the same for Dev. Still would for any of us.