He doesn’t stop. His hand darts out, groping at me.
“No, don’t do that,” I snap, shoving his hand away. “I need to go.”
My brain is in slow motion, my thoughts muddled—but still, it screams at me.
Danger. Get this random guy out of your car. This was a terrible idea.
He smirks. “If you kiss me again, I’ll get out. I’ll even let you keep this football,” he says, holding it out like some kind of twisted trophy.
I feel trapped.
“No,” I say.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing at me again.
I let him kiss me again, just to make him leave.
Please, just get out of the car. I did what you wanted.
But then, everything fades to black…
CHAPTER 80
PETE DAVIDSONING THE FENCE
MARGAUX
Iwake up disoriented, my vision blurry and my head throbbing. The first thing I notice is the sensation of being moved—gently but firmly—onto a stretcher.
An ambulance.I’m being removed from the truck and placed in an ambulance.
There are flashing lights, a woman with short hair rushing around, and voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of concern and urgency. A paramedic leans over me, adjusting a neck brace around my throat. It’s suffocating but necessary.
The truck—my truck—is pushed up against what looks like a fence. Splinters of wood and metal gleam in the daylight, and I can just make out a smashed headlight. My mind struggles to piece together how I ended up here, but everything feels scrambled.
The sirens sound hollow from inside the vehicle, an eerie wee-woo wee-woo as we make our way to hospital.
“I’m going to throw up,” I mumble, my voice dry and cracked.
A paramedic hands me a sick bag just in time, and I hurl into it, my body shaking as nausea overtakes me. Needles poke at myarm as they hook me up to fluids. My head feels heavy, detached from my body.
When we reach the hospital, I’m wheeled into the ER. Everything is a blur of white coats, blue scrubs, and fluorescent lights. Scanners beep, questions are asked, and hands move quickly to stabilize me.
I catch snippets of conversation: “Vitals are stable… possible mild concussion…”
They wheel me to a curtained-off bed. A cop is stationed right outside—not for me, but I notice he’s there.
I lie here, staring up at the ceiling. The world feels far away, yet the shame of everything that’s happened presses down on me like a lead blanket.
Oh my god. I Pete Davidson’d the fence.
But how? I feel… fine. Physically, anyway. Mentally, I’m unraveling.
I text a few friends to let them know what happened, though I don’t even know how to explain it myself.
“Can I go now?” I ask a nurse after what feels like hours.
She shakes her head. “We need to observe you a little longer. I’ll check when the doctor will clear you.”