by Karen Kincy
The open car door dings like a metronome. I bend over him and roll him onto his side. He’s not breathing.
What do I do? How long do seizures last?
I scramble to my feet and grab my purse from the car. My hands shake so badly I can’t get the screen to wake. “Fuck!”
He relaxes as the seizure ends and slumps on the road, his eyes closed, his mouth slack. He’s spit up some blood.
I shake him by the shoulder. “Bram?”
He blinks his eyes open and stares at the sky.
“You had a seizure. Are you okay?”
Blinking several more times, he swallows, coughs, and struggles to sit upright.
I brace his shoulder to help him. “Can you understand me?”
He mutters something wordless and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He spits more blood onto the gravel.
“Bram, I’m going to drive you to the hospital.”
“No.” He slurs the word. “No hospital.”
I brace his elbow while he staggers to his feet. He still looks groggy, like he’s drunk on the verge of blackout. I help him walk to the car and sit shotgun. Closing his eyes, he tilts back his head. “Are you okay?”
He nods but doesn’t open his eyes. I’m afraid to buckle him in. What if he has another seizure? I climb into the driver’s seat and shut the door. The Audi stops dinging, but my heart keeps hammering in my ears.
“I’m taking you home,” I say.
Bram says nothing. He looks like he’s sleeping.
I start the engine and shift to drive. This could have been so much worse. When he was driving, when he was climbing down the cliffs, when he was swimming. Shivering, I blink back tears as the adrenaline fades.
Out in the countryside, Bram coughs. “Where am I?” he says quietly.
“Eastbourne.”
He frowns. “I’m Winterbourne, not Eastbourne.”
“I know.”
Wincing, he touches his cheek. “I had a fit.”
“Has this happened before?”
“Yes.” His voice rasps and he clears his throat. “Since I was sixteen.”
“I don’t know how old you are.”
“Twenty-three.” He holds his head in his hands. “Christ, I thought it was over.”
Thank God, he sounds lucid again. “It’s over now. You’re going to be okay.”
He shakes his head. “The doctors told me the new medication was working. They said my epilepsy wouldn’t be a problem.”
“When was your last seizure? Was it recent?”
“Six months ago.” His eyes look distant. “It happened at Oxford.”
“Oxford?”
“The stress was immense. I was having a seizure a week.”
“Oh my God, Bram, I had no idea.”
“Nobody knew. My family thought everything was fine, though I was failing my classes. I saved my grades by cheating.”
My eyebrows shoot skyward. “You cheated your way through Oxford?”
A smile shadows his mouth. “And I was bloody brilliant at it. Smuggled answers to all my examinations. Got through most of Michaelmas term that way. Almost made it through finals before they caught me.”
“How?”
“A grand mal seizure. They found my notes.”
“Holy shit.”
“Naturally, they expelled me from Oxford.” He grimaces. “Shortly after I came to my senses, from what I remember.”
The pit of my stomach aches. “You could have told me.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
I don’t know the right thing to say. I don’t know if I can comfort him.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” he says.
“Why?”
“The government will take away my license for a year.”
Blood rushes into my face as I grip the steering wheel. “Don’t ask me that. I already lost one boyfriend to a car accident.”
He smiles miserably. “I’m your boyfriend now, am I?”
“Hell no.” I glower at the road. “Definitely not if you get yourself killed.”
He looks away and I feel like a bitch for saying it. We’re silent for a minute.
“Did you bite your tongue?” I say.
“The inside of my cheek. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
It hurts to hear the shame in his voice. “You don’t have to apologize.”
He stares out the window. “I’m bloody exhausted.”
“We should be back soon.”
Wolfenwold Hall echoes with the hammers of workmen. Bram climbs from the Audi, his head bowed, and trudges to the door.
I catch his elbow. “Do you need anything?”
“Sleep.”
I wince when a workman starts drilling in the foyer.
“Mr. Winterbourne!” A man in a hardhat runs over to us. “We found hardwood parquet under the carpet in the ballroom.”
Bram pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wonderful.”
“Should we salvage it?”
“I suppose. I’m sorry, now isn’t the best time.”
The man in the hardhat hesitates. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Headache.” It might not be a lie. “Take the rest of the day off.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bram climbs upstairs, one hand on the banister, and I follow at his heels. “I’m fine,” he mutters. “I won’t fall.”
A blush scorches my face. “Sorry.”
He says nothing, just walks into his bedroom, kicks off his boots, and sprawls on his bed. He stares at the ceiling.
I linger by the door. “How do you feel?”
“Odd.”
I cross the room but stop short of touching him. “What do you mean?”
“Always feel odd after a fit.”
I clench my jaw. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to apologize, I just—I’m worried about you.”
“Let me sleep.” Shadows darken the blue in his eyes. “I’ll be all right.”
I remember how he carried me in his arms. How sweet he was. Gritting my teeth, I fight tears. “Get well soon. God damn it.”
His laugh sounds broken. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I drape a blanket over him and tuck him in tight. He watches me through his eyelashes. I walk out of his bedroom before I start bawling or otherwise embarrassing myself, but I can’t swallow the knot in my throat.
After I shut the door, I find myself face to face with Grace. “Hello,” she says frostily.
I sidestep away from his bedroom. “Let him sleep.”
“Good lord, it’s the middle of the workday.” She curls her lip.
Her sneer pisses me off. But not as much as the thought of Bram getting himself hurt because of his own stubborn pride.
I suck in some air. “He had another seizure.”
29
Bram
I sleep for I don’t know how long. When I wake, it’s nighttime.
An electric lantern by the window illuminates the silhouette of a woman, sitting and typing on a tablet computer. I prop myself on my elbows. “Cassia?” My voice comes out as a croak; my cheek aches from being bitten.
“No, it’s me.”
Grace.
I slump back onto the bed. “What do you want?”
She pours a glass of water from a pitcher and hands it to me. “How do you feel?”
Christ, she knows about the seizure. Cassia told her. I swig the water, the taste of blood lingering on my tongue.
“Grace, I swear to God, if you tell anyone—”
“Is this the first time? Since Oxford?”
“Yes.”
She purses her lips. “Are you still thirsty?”
“No, thank you.” I lean against the headboard. “I’ll go back to the doctor, I promise. I’ll get a better medication.”
Grace sighs out a breath. “Bram, this is bloody awful.”
I say nothing.
“You should tell Mam.”
“That’s not such a brilliant idea.” I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. “She barely trusts me already.”
She tilts her head. “Are you alone during the day?”
“No.” I hesitate. “Sometimes.”
“Someone should stay with you until you get your meds worked out.”
“Are you offering?”
“You know I can’t.”
I think about Cassia and I rake my fingers through my hair. I can’t ask her to do that. I’ve already done enough damage.
Grace folds her hands in her lap. “If you can’t handle the stress, I can help you.”
I manage a lopsided smile. “Help me save the gardens.”
“Why?” She arches an eyebrow. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”
“Does it matter?”
“You must have fallen for her hard.”
My ears heat. “I hardly know her.”
“Well, you certainly know each other in the biblical sense.”
“Hilarious.”
When I stand, the room wobbles. I clutch my head. Haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, which can’t help.
Grace rises from her chair. “Bram. Be careful.”
“I’m not a fucking invalid.”
My sister eyes me. “You must really feel like rubbish.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to swear.”
“You didn’t fucking deserve this.”
I grin at Grace. She might look prim and proper, but we’re more alike than different. “Don’t worry. I’ll get it under control.”
“I pray to God you do.”
30
Cassia
I curl around my pillow. Moonlight steals into the cottage, rain pattering on the roof. I imagine Bram listening while lying in bed, one arm folded behind his head, his legs stretched out. Muscles aching and sore.
I kick aside my sheets. He shouldn’t be alone.
But how can I stay with him? I can’t pretend to be his girlfriend. I can’t give that much of myself to anyone again.
Stay away from Bram Winterbourne. Stay away from pain.
Morning dawns gray and cold. I walk to Wolfenwold Hall without eating breakfast, my stomach squirming too much.
In the library, Bram bites a slice of bread and brushes crumbs from an old book.
“Winterbourne,” I say.
A smile touches his lips. “Good morning.”
God, have his eyes always been this blue? This trusting?
“We both know this isn’t working.”
The smile fades from Bram’s face. He puts the bread on the table and stares at the bite. “What do you mean?”
I can’t meet his gaze. “I’m leaving Wolfenwold Hall.”
“Cassia.” He shoves his chair from the table and stands. “We can still save the gardens. You can still stay.”
“I can’t risk my career.”
I can’t risk falling for him.
He strides to me, his eyes burning, and stares down at me. “How much do you want?”
“What?”
“I’ll give you a raise.”
My jaw drops. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’ll pay you.” He holds out his arms. “This is my fault.”
“It isn’t, Bram, and you can’t buy me.”
His face twists into a grimace. “Why would you even say that?”
“Because I’m not a hooker? And I need a real job?”
“I gave you a real job.” His voice stays so damn calm.
Shaking my head, I sidestep away, but he follows me. “This isn’t why I studied botany. I didn’t go to Oxford to fuck around.”
He tilts his head. “Which is why I owe you.”
“This isn’t about the money!” The words explode from me.
He rakes his hands through his hair, his mouth thinning into a line, and backs away from me. “Then is it me?”
I curl my fingers into fists. “You aren’t the reason I’m here.”
His face tightens with intensity. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m seeing a doctor soon.”
“Shit, this isn’t about you.” I force a laugh. “Get your head out of your ass. Not everybody lives such a life of privilege.”
“I don’t understand.” He genuinely looks like he doesn’t. It’s almost pitiful.
“You never will.”
“Cassia.”
Bram reaches for me. I retreat, but I’m not quick enough to avoid the pain in his eyes. And that’s exactly why I walk away.
31
Bram
She broke up with me. And we weren’t even bloody dating.
I leave Wolfenwold Hall and keep walking to nowhere. Wind rushes through the trees and bends the grass sideways.
Jesus, what have I done? There’s a hollowness in my stomach, the opposite of hunger.
An old stone wall blocks my path. I vault over it and keep walking, my boots sinking into the boggy grass. Black cows huddle in the field, chewing cud and staring at me like I’m a right fool. They wouldn’t be wrong.
She thinks I’m rubbish. Defective. Nothing better than a broken sex toy.
I clench my fists and hit the stone wall. It doesn’t even hurt. I hit the stone again. Again. Until I finally feel anything at all. Knuckles stinging, I slump by the wall and stare at the blood. Why did I ever fuck her?
The rain thickens to a silver haze. I shouldn’t have walked out this far.
But I was too prideful to admit I was wrong. About everything. I’ve never been used before. Tossed aside before.
With a sigh, I start walking across the field toward town. Today I’ll drink to forget.
32
Cassia
I’m lost in London. I forgot how big it was, and my brain feels foggy.
On a gray street corner like every other gray street corner, I wonder where the hell the train station went. I got turned around when I started wandering down the sidewalk. My phone won’t wake, the battery dead, since I didn’t charge it before leaving. I didn’t do a lot of things before leaving Wolfenwold Hall.
Like saying goodbye to Bram.
Fuck, don’t think about him. Find a taxi. I haul my suitcase to the curb and hail a cab.
The cabbie hops out. “Where to, love?”
“Heathrow. And hurry, please, my flight leaves in two hours.”
“No worries.”
The cabbie loads my suitcase into the back. I slump in the seat and lean my cheek against the window. Fatigue weights my bones.
I’m leaving England. After less than a week at Wolfenwold Hall.
Well, at least I have a knack for burning bridges quickly.
When Heathrow appears on the horizon, I’m almost ready to cry. Los Angeles. I haven’t been home since I left for Oxford.
Since Spencer died.
I don’t even know if it’s home anymore.
I make it through security in decent time and find a spot in the waiting area to guard my suitcase. An outlet on the wall beckons me. I unpack my charger, plug in my phone, and squint at the screen while I wait for it to wake.
Bram texted me.
My stomach somersaults. I’m afraid to read the text, but I can’t just delete it. I blow out my breath and open the text.
Bram is in the hospital.
I stare at my phone. After I wipe away smudges with my sleeve, the words are still there.
Numbness creeps over my skin. Sitting on the bench, I stare at the gate where my flight will land. I can walk through and erase the text and turn off my phone. Leave Bram behind. Easy. My ribs tighten until it hurts.
Shit, I can’t breathe.
I bend over, my head between my elbows, and suck in air. Gasps turn into sobs. This can’t be happening. Not in a fucking airport in fucking London. I climb to my feet, snuffling back snot, and drag my suitcase toward the closest bathroom. Airport security stares at me. Threat level: Cassia’s lost her shit.
I duck into
the bathroom and bend over the faucet. The water is lukewarm, but I splash it over my face anyway. A lady in a sari gives me a weird look as I rip off a brown paper towel and blow my nose. Come on, they must have meltdowns in India. When I glance at my reflection, a laugh escapes me. I look disgusting.
Who texted me? Grace? Does she blame me?
I don’t even know what happened to Bram. Fear clenches my gut. I throw away the snotty paper towel and wash my hands again, so I’m not standing in the bathroom with nothing to do. The lady in the sari leaves.
My flight boards in less than an hour. I can still walk away like a total bitch.
Maybe I am a bitch. Maybe I always have been.
My hand clamped on my suitcase, I stride out of the bathroom. I make it all the way to my gate before I swerve. My feet grow lighter and lighter as I break into a jog, burst into the London rain, and stop on the sidewalk.
Hands trembling, I take my phone from my purse and text a reply.
One word. Where?
An eternity or two passes before my phone buzzes. The hospital in Eastbourne.
Taxis idle in the loading and unloading zone. I wave my phone at the nearest cabbie. “Can you take me to the hospital in Eastbourne?”
A cabbie squints. “Sure. It’s two hours.”
“Fuck.” I apologize for my foul mouth with a smile. “Take me there. Please.”
The cabbie loads my suitcase into his cab. At this rate, I’m going to waste most of the day in limbo, but I have to go back.
The trip from London to Eastbourne passes in a blur of rain and fear. I hunch over my phone, doing searches on epilepsy until I lose reception out in the fields. The cabbie listens to the BBC on the radio and hardly says a word. I twist my hair around my finger, tighter and tighter, and watch the end turn purple.
I recognize the outskirts of Eastbourne. And this road.
That’s exactly where Bram fell in the gravel. My eyes burn, threatening tears, and I rub them with my knuckles.
“We’re here,” the cabbie says.
The hospital looks drab and gray, too small to hold many patients.
I pay the cabbie the ridiculously large fare and lug my suitcase into the hospital. I run to the desk in the reception area.
“I’m here to see Bram Winterbourne,” I say.
The receptionist glances at me. “Name?”
“Bram Winterbourne.”
