Lightheaded

November 1st, 2013

“What the fuck, Jilly?”

“Harry, mate, now’s not really the time,” Zayn’s voice was tight and so was his grip around Jillian’s waist.

“Zayn, mate,” Harry hissed back, taking in her tragic state as he held open the door, “I think I can take it from here.”

“If you two don’t stop,” Jillian’s voice felt soft and foreign and not her’s at all, “‘M gonna puke all over your feet.”

Harry’s movements were harsh and jerky as he reached to pull her into his side and away from Zayn. If she had felt any less close to death, she would’ve read into it all a little bit more. Instead, she focused on her quick, uneven breaths and the steady floor beneath her feet. She just needed to make it a few more feet to the couch. She just needed them to stop whatever pissing contest was being held in the doorway of her and Harry’s apartment.

“Text me when you’re feeling better,” Zayn mumbled, “Or if you need anything.”

Jillian could feel Harry tensing up, preparing to spit back something cruel, but she managed to cut him off weakly, “Y-yeah, thank you. For everything.”

She expected Harry’s muscles to loosen up a bit once the door had shut and Zayn was gone, but they didn’t. Which wasn’t exactly fair because if anyone had the right to be angry, it was her. And if she wasn’t so goddamn sick she’d be screaming her head off.

“Jillian-”

“J-just take me to the couch,” she mumbled, her world still tipped and spinning too fast, “Please.”

He complied without another word.

The couch they’d thrifted somewhere in Soho creaked with any amount of weight and still smelled a little musty, but as soon as she sank into it she immediately regretted any curses and insults she’d ever thrown at it. As soon as her head hit the cushion and her legs curled up to her stomach, the world felt a little less off, her vision felt just a little clearer.

Her eyes focused on the coffee table in front of her, a half empty pizza box and a few crumpled cans of beer. A wave of nausea hit her, along with the recurring thought that Harry had never planned to attend Zayn’s party at all.

“I can’t believe you!” he hissed, legs pacing across the tiny room somewhere in her peripheral vision. It was just enough to make her dizzy. She couldn’t believe him.

He went on for what felt like ever, stomping and throwing around careless words, but none of it registered. Her eyes stayed focused, on something more constant and steady, something that didn’t make her feel like she might puke again.

The coffee table was a mess and lying in the middle of it all was one of his journals. It was one she recognized but hadn’t seen much of lately. The dark brown leather was worn and scribbled on and it was laying face down, spine cracked to a particular page. Her mind wondered lazily what he’d written the night before. Sometimes she wished reading his thoughts was as easy as sneaking a peek at a dog eared page.

“You’re not even bloody listening!” his voice cut through her tangled thoughts. He was standing in front of her again, arms crossed over his chest with lines tucked between his brows.

Jillian just blinked. Even the thought of forming words was too much effort, required too much energy. She wanted to curl up and die.

“Are you gonna say anything?!” he spat, “Or just act like you didn’t worry me sick and make the worst decisions possible last night?!”

The hypocrisy was a little too much for her spinning head. It was his fault. He hadn’t shown. He’d tipped her over the edge of bad decisions. And now she was so fucking sick.

“P-please stop yelling,” her voice cracked, partly from throwing up and partly from having not spoken in so long.

He did, but it appeared to be more out of shock than anything. She understood though, because she was never one to back down, especially not against Harry. Since they were kids she’d always been a little louder, a little angrier, a little more rebellious. Her parents had always hoped she’d grow out of it, but she didn’t mind. She liked being able to stand her ground. But right then, even with all the shit that had happened the night before, she couldn’t be bothered.

His dark eyes narrowed after the slack jawed look of shock wore off. Every muscle in his face was pulled tight and it made her stomach churn more. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so angry and she was almost certain it had never been directed at her.

But instead of continuing on, he spun on his heel with his arms crossed over his chest and stalked off. The slam of his bedroom door echoed throughout the apartment and in her head for what felt like ever.

Eventually, she dozed but she didn’t move an inch, head tucked into herself and legs pulled to her chest. She stayed on her side in case she vomited again because she remembered somewhere in the back of her head that you couldn’t asphyxiate like that. All she wanted was to feel better and maybe to have the throw blanket on the back of the couch tossed over her, but she didn’t have the energy for either of those.

*

Jillian stayed on the tiny couch all day, hardly conscious.

The first time she woke up, her phone had been plugged in next to her and the throw blanket was draped over her. She felt feverish and was certain she’d imagined it.

The second time she woke up, there was a cool glass of water on the coffee table and a packet of saltines. It was good to know she wasn’t hallucinating and she probably wasn’t dying, but under how awful she still felt she was still angry.

The third time she woke up, it was well into the afternoon and despite her stomach still churning, it was definitely growling for food. And she wanted her mom.

Her phone was still off, but fully charged and just an arm’s length away. She still felt like she was underwater, her limbs were far too heavy, and just the energy it took for her to reach her phone was enough to make her want to cry again.

Sarah picked up on the third ring.

“Jillian!” her voice was bright and cheery and normally it would’ve lightened the load on her chest but right then it was enough to make her turn the speaker all the way down.

“Hi mom,” she managed weakly, letting her eyes fall shut as she tried to catch her breath.

“Sweetheart,” her voice shifted instantly, naturally, “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

She wanted to cringe, to tell her she was just fine, but the worried tone was enough to tip her over the edge. She was just so sick and so frustrated and all she wanted was her mother. She couldn’t stop the pinprick of tears behind her eyes or the swelling lump in her throat.

“I-I’m sick,” it wasn’t a lie.

“What’s wrong, honey?” she cooed.

Jillian could almost see her, could almost feel her presence, could almost smell her dainty perfume and feel her soft hands. She wondered if she had a fever.

“I-I dunno,” she confessed, everything bubbling up in her chest, “I-I’m just so sick a-and me and H-Harry are fighting a-and I don’t know what to do b-because I can’t even get off the couch.”

It had been months since she’d felt so pathetic, curled up in a ball on the couch crying to her mom and feeling like her entire body was short circuiting. It was fair to say that Harry was Jillian’s closest friend, but it was also fair to say that prior to moving to New York he was her only close friend. Besides her mother.

They’d always had a good relationship, she’d always been a mommy’s girl while her little sister had been a daddy’s girl, (their older brother had never really needed anyone). It had only strengthened when Jillian hit puberty, when girls started being mean and boys started noticing her. And when everything went to shit in highschool, when her first serious relationship went to shit and she quickly realized she had plenty of acquaintances but very few friends. Her mom was always there with open arms and ears. Besides Harry, she was the only person in her life she could tell absolutely everything.

So she told her everything. How Harry stood her up, what happened at the party, how fucking sick she’d gotten, how now they couldn't even stand to be in the same room. She left out a few things. How her and Zayn had probably been too drunk to do what they’d done, her lingering feelings of being too codependent, that aching tiredness that had settled in her bones in the past few weeks.

Her mother told her she’d be fine, which was exactly what she needed to hear. She told her she’d drank too much and was overstressed and overworked and underslept. She told her she just needed a cup of soup and a lot of water and a hell of a lot more sleep. She’d be just fine.

She’d managed to stop crying by the time she got off the phone, but that didn’t mean she felt any better physically.

She spent the rest of the day on the couch, sipping water slowly, nibbling on crackers, shutting her eyes and feigning sleep every time she heard Harry’s bedroom door crack open. She knew they’d fight eventually, when she was capable of it, but she couldn’t even stand to look at him until then. The wound of betrayal was still too raw.

*

They walked on eggshells around each other. Jillian, too tired to fight, and Harry, knowing he’d screwed up massively if even Jilly wouldn’t fight with him. The apartment was dead silent for nearly the entire weekend.

Sunday mornings in their apartment had usually been filled with a big breakfast, courtesy of Harry, and dancing to good music in the kitchen, courtesy of Jillian. That Sunday morning was eerily quiet. There was no music, no breakfast, not even the hum of the coffee pot through the paper thin walls. It set Harry on edge. It felt like the calm before the storm.

For the first time in days, Jillian was awake before him. She was sitting at the crooked kitchen table with an old journal and a dirty set of watercolors. Her hair was longer than he remembered, brushed over one shoulder like a curtain between them, and she was hunched over intently. He knew how she got sometimes, he didn’t want to scare her.

He hesitated, hovering between the living room and the kitchen table. He knew she probably hadn’t heard his bedroom door open or the flushing of the toilet signalling he was up. Instead of saying anything and risking a blowout, he went to the kitchenette and shuffled around with his back to her, dug around in the fridge aimlessly. When he turned around again, she was half staring, half glaring.

“Morning,” he mumbled quietly.

She blinked twice and ducked her head back to whatever she’d been working on. Harry wasn’t sure if that was progress or not.

“Are you hungry?” he knew the more he spoke, the more he was pushing it. He just needed to hear something. He was beginning to fear her hangover had taken her voice with it.

“No.”

Her tone was flat, emotionless. He supposed he deserved that.

“Coffee?” he tried, a little more softly.

She shook her head and pointed the brush in her hand at one of the two mugs in front of her, one for coffee and one for paint water. The bigger one, a chipped one with a giant sand dollar on it from that time their families had gone to Myrtle Beach for Thanksgiving, was for coffee. The other, smaller and darker and thrifted with a logo for some diner they’d never heard of, was strictly for paint water.

Harry sighed, something heavy still weighing on his chest.

The other crooked chair across the little round kitchen table from her creaked as he pulled it out slowly and sat down, still studying her. She was unphased, too calm. She didn’t look nearly as hungover as she had for the past few days though. He’d been tiptoeing around her, leaving snacks or drinks on the coffee table, shutting off lights after she fell asleep, making sure her phone was plugged in near her in case she needed something. He’d never seen her so sick from a hangover. It scared him a bit. Something was getting worse and he wasn’t sure if it was her alcohol consumption or her hangovers. Both of those signalled something bigger though.

He could still see the bags under her eyes and the paleness to her skin, but she looked just the slightest bit better. He’d heard her take a shower the night before, her hair was clean although unbrushed. He’d found an empty packet of ramen noodles in the trash which meant she’d eaten her first real meal. He was monitoring closely from a distant. It was less likely he’d get his head ripped off that way, though it seemed inevitable.

“Jilly,” he mumbled after a few minutes as she swirled a brush in water, “A-are we gonna talk?”

She froze, fingers curling around the brush handle a bit tighter. Her head swung up, eyes narrowed and lips parted as if he’d just made the most unbelievably offensive joke. The few seconds of silence were deafening, he’d never wished more that he could read her mind.

“Are you fucking joking?” she asked flatly, voice rough, “I think you did enough talking the other morning for the both of us.”

It was the most she’d said to him in days and it stung. Mostly because he knew she was right. His mind flashed back to the morning after the Halloween party, what he’d said and how he’d said it and the tantrum he’d thrown.

“I-I-” his mouth was dry, throat constricted, “A-are you gonna talk?”

She snorted, flipping her hair over her shoulder and looking back down at what she was working on, “As if that’s what you want.”

He picked at his fingernails. He knew he needed to drop it, she still hadn’t cooled down yet. Though, he couldn’t blame her. This was the worst semblance of a fight they’d had in years. Even if their fights usually consisted of both parties fighting back.

That was the worst part, he knew he’d overreacted, he knew he’d crossed a line, he knew he’d been unfair. But he’d done it anyway, because he was a bitter dickhead. He needed to get over himself, get over whatever ugly, jealous thing had reared its head.

It sounded so simple that he almost believed he could do it, until he looked up again. Her too big shirt had slipped off her shoulder, revealing a fading hickey on her collarbone.

And there it was, that bubbling, boiling, burning feeling in his chest, spreading up his throat and out of his mouth like a forest fire.

He slid his chair out harshly, “Fuck off, Jilly.”