The thirtieth time Remy saw Megan, it was the weekend before Thanksgiving and Remy was at the bar to see her friend briefly before heading into the city for what probably qualified as a third date with Spencer. Megan was in a good mood, a smile in her eyes and a lightness to her step, and Remy was halfway to a panic attack because she couldn't remember the last time she had a third date with anyone, much less someone as intriguing as Spencer.
"Calm down," Megan said, smirking as she mixed a drink for another customer. "You're being stupid. People freak out about first dates, not third dates."
"Probably because most people have had a third date in this decade," Remy muttered. She paused, turning the statement over in her head, and then sighed frustratedly. "Christ, I feel old," she added, dropping her forehead into her hands.
Megan laughed. She prodded Remy's shoulder until the brunette sat up straight and met her eyes; clear grey was filled with laughter at Remy's dilemma. "Calm down," she repeated. "There's no reason for you to work yourself up about this, and you know it. I mean, come on. The girl already knows all your dirty little secrets, you've already slept with her once, and she still wants to go out with you. Clearly she sees something she likes."
Remy mumbled something incoherently into her palm; she wasn't even sure what it was, but settled for telling herself that it would have been extremely clever, had it been audible. Megan rolled her eyes.
"Shut up," the bartender said. "You know perfectly well that things will go fine. Hey, she might even let you get past second tonight, you never know." She paused. "Let's hope so. Maybe some sex would calm you down. You're never uptight like this when you've been getting laid."
Remy couldn't keep herself from snorting at that, a grin threatening her lips. Megan smiled in quiet triumph and busied herself with pouring a pitcher of Corona.
"Your concern for my emotional welfare is touching," Remy said sardonically.
"I'm a charmer," Megan said. "What can I say?" She smiled at Remy as she disappeared down the bar to hand off the pitcher. Remy watched, a small smile on her lips, as the redhead handed the pitcher to a crowd of fraternity boys and blushed as they all seemed to try to hit on her simultaneously. Her anxiety about the upcoming evening with Spencer faded slightly into the background as she watched her friend.
A man and a woman walked up to the bar; he cleared his throat, capturing Remy's attention, and motioned to the seat to her left. Remy murmured an apology, clearing her coat and purse off of the chair; they both nodded at her as they took their seats, silent and awkwardly solemn. As Remy diverted her attention back in the other direction, she saw Megan disappear into the back with an empty bottle of Ketel One.
Taking a deep breath, Remy braced her hands on the bar and pushed herself to her feet. Slowly, she tugged her coat on and wound her scarf around her neck. She ignored the dull ache of nerves in her stomach, focusing the majority of her attention on peering at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar as she checked her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Megan appearing from the storeroom, a replacement bottle of vodka in her hands.
"So," Megan said, pausing in front of Remy as she cracked the wrapper around the lid of the bottle. "Finally going to get going?"
"Yep," Remy said. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced at Megan in what she hoped was a confident manner.
"You look like you're going to puke," Megan said mildly. She smiled slightly at Remy stuck-out tongue, storing the bottle with its counterparts below the bar. "Have fun," she said, a serious note in her voice. "You'll be fine."
"Thanks," Remy murmured. It really was a little ridiculous to be so worked up over a third date, she reasoned. "We still on for that concert tomorrow night?"
"Yeah," Megan said. "I'll drive this time. Nine?"
"Nine," Remy confirmed. She smiled and waved. "See you then. Have a good night."
"You, too," Megan said softly. "Take care."
The man who had taken the seat next to Remy cleared his throat, capturing Megan's attention. As Remy turned to leave, she jerked to a stop when she saw Megan's alabaster skin go paper white under her freckles, her greeting to the patron dying on her lips as she froze with wide eyes and a hanging mouth.
Unaware that Remy was standing frozen in her path to the doorway and listening in, the man coughed awkwardly and stood, hands resting on the bar. "Megan," he said. His voice was hoarse, his tone unnervingly bland. "You're looking well."
Megan remained silent and slack-jawed. Remy felt an uncomfortable feeling settle in her stomach, far worse than the nerves she'd been fretting over for her date, at the painfully familiar set of Megan's shoulders, identical to when she'd first come to Remy's apartment to settle things between them. Unconsciously, Remy shifted her weight, as if poising herself to jump into a fight that was about to break out, to jump in front of a punch thrown at her friend.
"What… what are you doing here?" Megan managed to squeak out. The uncomfortable feeling in Remy's stomach intensified at the unadulterated fear in her friend's voice, the unavoidable tremors in her hands that shook the bottle of vodka, Ketel One sloshing tumultuously inside the glass.
"I've been looking for you," he said. "For years. You did a good job of disappearing."
Megan's mouth opened and closed several times, seemingly unable to form articulate words. The doctor in Remy worried over the unhealthily grey tinge in her cheeks, the uncontrollable shaking of her hands, the way she was starting to sway minutely on the spot. Before she could stop herself, she moved back to the bar, beside the troublesome man and woman, leaning over towards Megan.
"Hey," she said, soft but sharp. "Megan, look at me."
The redhead refused to meet her gaze, eyes wide and head shaking as she bit down on her lip. "No," she whispered. "Not… no, I have to go. I have to go." She dropped the bottle, thankfully still capped, onto the counter in front of her and bolted, shoving past the other bartender on her way into the back room.
"Shit," Remy muttered. Ignoring the angry protests of the hoarse man, she shoved past them and all but sprinted around the end of the bar. Sending up a thankful prayer that Danny, the other bartender, knew her well enough not to flip at the sight of her behind the bar, she nodded brusquely at him as she chased after Megan.
In the poorly-lit quiet of the store rooms, insulated from the sounds of the bar, she found Megan fumbling with her coat and purse, trembling hands pawing through the pockets.
"Megan," Remy said sharply. "Hey, Megan, listen to me for a minute, will you?" She chanced moving closer, grabbing at Megan's wrists to stop her frantic searching; Megan responded violently, shoving Remy away, an elbow catching her in the stomach and pushing the air out of her lungs.
"I have to go, I have to go, I have to go," Megan muttered endlessly. She didn't even seem to notice that Remy was there as she located her car keys and ran unsteadily out of the room, past the wheezing doctor.
Trying desperately to keep herself from panicking as her lungs refused to inflate, Remy shoved her hand into her purse, finding her inhaler and yanking it out. Two quick puffs and she inhaled greedily, stubbornly not thinking about the fact that Megan had just pushed her violently into a wall.
Inhaler still clutched in her hand, she ran after Megan, bursting out into the cold air on the corner of the sidewalk just in time to see Megan's car disappearing down the long block in the direction of her apartment. Swearing under her breath, cursing the fact that she was parked half a block away, Remy sprinted to her own car and drove as fast as she dared to Megan's apartment, praying that her friend would make it there in one piece. She breathed a sigh of relief as she clumsily parked next to Megan's own crookedly-situated but unscathed car.
It was only on the elevator ride up to Megan's floor that she remembered that she was supposed to be on her way to New York; she typed out a text message in six seconds and prayed that Spencer could make sense of it, before hurrying down the hallway to where Megan's front door hung open.
"Oh, Christ," she muttered when she stepped into the apartment to see Megan curled up on the couch, still trembling, a needle hanging from the crook of her arm and blood staining her shirt. Three other spent needles lay scattered on the floor and coffee table in front of her.
Remy dropped to her knees in front of Megan, grabbing her wrist and pulling the needle out of her arm as gently as possible. She pressed a hand over the drops of blood leaking out of the injection site, her heart skipping a beat painfully when Megan's head lolled back lifelessly against the couch, her skin hot to the touch and eyes half-lidded.
"Megan, come on," Remy said weakly. She clambered up onto the couch next to Megan, pulling her friend against her and supporting her head; she could hardly tell where Megan's tremors ended and her own fear-borne shaking began. Fumbling clumsily, she scrabbled for her phone, punching in 911 and swearing under her breath as Megan's breaths started to slow down, her eyes drifting shut the rest of the way.
"Yeah, I need an ambulance," she said hurriedly into the phone, rattling off Megan's address. "26 year old white female, opiate overdose." She paused. "Send her to Princeton-Plainsboro."
Dropping the phone from numb fingers at the end of the call, Remy wrapped her arm tightly around Megan's shoulders, her other hand pressed against the heated skin of the redhead's forehead, pushing damp hair out of her face. "Come on, come on," she muttered, willing the ambulance to appear. Holding onto Megan tightly, praying to any god she could think of, Remy squeezed her eyes shut to ward off tears, and waited.