“No!” Layla flashed her palms in defense. “No—not at all! Not even close. You see, Tommy’s inside—he’s in there right now. But I think he’s sick, which is why he’s not answering the door. I just want to check and make sure he’s okay. It’s totally legit. I swear. If it turns out he’s not there, you can kick me out. It’s all good.”
“Is this about the girl?”
Layla squinted, unsure what she meant.
“Because I tell you right now, this is no way to handle it. You’re in enough trouble already, don’t you think?”
Layla was horrified, but did her best to keep her face blank.
“I should call TMZ.”
At the sound of that, Layla started backing away. “Not necessary,” she said. “Forget this ever happened. Sorry to have bothered you.”
She could feel the woman’s piercing gaze as she retraced her steps. Stopping before Tommy’s door, she rang the buzzer again, then composed a text to Aster explaining how it was none of their business. If Tommy decided to hook up with Madison, that was his choice. Layla was choosing to move on before she could embarrass herself any more than she already had.
She was about to hit send, when the door swung open and Tommy swayed unsteadily before her.
“Tommy? Omigod!” Layla scrambled toward him, catching him by the arm before he could topple over.
His eyes were glassy, his face pale, and there was a trail of what looked to be vomit running down the front of his T-shirt. She started to veer him toward the couch, but there was more vomit on the floor, so she steered him toward the bedroom instead.
“Are you okay?” She settled him onto the mattress and pulled his soiled T-shirt over his head. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
He squinted but couldn’t quite focus. “I think she drugged me.” His chin bobbed against his chest.
“Shit—just—” Layla glanced around wildly. She had no idea what to do. Racing for his bathroom, she grabbed a clean hand towel, ran some cold water over it, and pressed it against his forehead and cheeks. “What did you drink—what did she give you?”
“Tequila. Couple shots. I think she . . . she set me . . .” He tried to form words, but all he could manage was an incoherent mumble.
“She set you up. I know. Don’t talk, just—” She looked at him. “Or maybe you should talk? I don’t know—crap!”
Panicked, she reached for her phone, about to call 911, when she remembered Aster’s warning and texted Mateo instead. He was the only one she knew, aside from her dad, who had experience with these things.
What do you do when someone ODs?
She hit send, then waited impatiently. A few seconds later, he replied.
Call 911.
What else?
Are they conscious?
She looked at Tommy and typed:
Yes.
Call 911.
It’s complicated—it’s Tommy.
I’ll be right there.
You don’t have to.
On my way.
In the meantime?
Stay with him—not far.
She eased Tommy back against the pillows and checked his pulse. She didn’t know if it was slower than usual or faster than usual. She was mainly relieved to confirm that he had one.
“You okay?” she asked.
His head bobbed in a way she took as a yes. Then she watched as he curled into a fetal position and hugged himself at the waist. The sight of him looking so vulnerable left her struggling between wanting to protect him, and wanting to find Madison and make her pay for doing this to him.
“Don’t move,” she instructed, quickly realizing the ridiculousness of the statement. He was in no shape to wander. It was amazing he’d made it to the front door to let her in. “I’ll be right back!” She raced for the den to try to get a handle on what Madison might’ve given him.
It was just as Aster described: ap bottle of Unrivaled tequila, two shot glasses, and Tommy’s favorite Led Zeppelin T-shirt balled up on the floor. She frowned, trying to imagine what might’ve occurred for it to find its way from Madison’s body to the ground. Hating herself for even thinking that way, she forced herself to look past it to the note left on the table, tucked under his phone.
Tommy-
I’m so sorry for what I’ve done. You’ve been nothing but kind from the start, and I owe you in ways I’ll never be able to repay. I hope someday I’ll have the chance to explain, but mostly I hope you’ll find it in your heart to not hate me—even though I’ve now given you every reason to turn against me.
Just so you know, you ingested two hydrocodone pills along with two shots of tequila. I didn’t try to kill you and you didn’t OD. At the very worst, you’ll fall asleep and wake up with a raging headache and a heart that’s hardened toward me.
M.
Layla had just finished reading the note when she heard Mateo at the front door.
“Where is he?” He rushed to her side.
“It’s okay. He’s okay. Or at least he will be. I think he just needs to sleep it off.”
She handed him the note, then reached for Tommy’s phone.
“Wait—this is from Madison? She was here?” Mateo stared in what could only be described as disbelief.
“She was.” Layla sighed. “But not anymore.” She motioned him into the bedroom, where she perched on the mattress and pressed the wet towel to Tommy’s forehead. “Are we doing the right thing?” She looked at Mateo. “Should we take him to the hospital?”
Mateo paced the length of the room. Ignoring her question, he said, “I can’t believe this! After everything you went through—getting arrested, jail time, the tabloids—and you’ve actually been hiding her all along?”
“No,” she murmured. “Not all along.” She checked Tommy’s pulse again. He seemed fine. Or at least she hoped that was the case.
“Why haven’t you told anyone? Why isn’t this breaking news?”
Mateo was incredulous, and while she didn’t blame him, she also knew the explanation she was about to give would sound completely ridiculous to anyone who hadn’t been there when they’d found her. “Because Tommy, Aster,
