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“Are you going to throw up?”
I want to yell at him, “What does it look like?” Or “Why do you fucking care?” But instead I nod my head vehemently.
Alex sighs and grabs a bucket next to the bed, displaying vomit that I must have upchucked the night before. The smell is all I need to spew my guts. I’m surprised by how little comes out, but I feel relieved as I lay back in the bed, gasping while slowly closing my eyes.
“Oh, thank you, Alex,” Alex says in a mocking voice. “I really appreciate you, Alex. It was so kind of you to get me home safely and nurse me all night, Alex.”
I groan. He wants to fight now? Really? I open one eye, finding him standing above me, scowling with his hands on his hips. Why do I feel like a married man with a nagging wife?
“Please,” I croak, near to begging. “Not now.”
“What do you mean not now?”
I make a face. “No fighting now. Tomorrow?”
Alex’s scowl darkens. For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me and continue, but instead, he turns on his heel and walks toward the door. I heave a sigh in relief, thankful he’s decided not to kick a man while he’s down.
“I’m making breakfast,” I hear Alex mutter. “Don’t think you’re getting away with being an asshole that easily, Garcia.”
I find myself nodding. The motion makes me ache. Everything is painful. I have a feeling, given that Alex slept here and his irritation, I was quite the jerk last night. I stare up at the white ceiling, my brow tented as I think of what happened after the dance floor, but nothing is coming back. Those hours are gone. Lost.
I hate feeling this way, hate not knowing what I did or said.
Slowly, I crawl out of bed. My hands are the first to touch the floor. My body slides the rest of the way down, my knees thumping against the carpet. I try to ignore the sticky, sweaty material sticking to my palms as I carefully crawl toward the door. This is gross. Absolutely disgusting, but I can’t see myself standing right now.
I pause in front of the door, my gaze lifting to the doorknob several inches above me. My hand reaches for it, my fingers brush against the metal. I’m nearly there, but I can’t move. The thought of lifting myself up that last inch to grab the handle makes me want to cry. I’m not so certain I can do it.
I have no clue how long I sit in front of my door, reaching for the handle. It feels like hours have passed as I stare at my door, willing it to lower, willing it to open. Eventually, with a whimper, I rise and grab the handle, pushing it open. My body tumbles into the hallway and I lie on the ground, pressing my cheek into the sticky, dirty floor as I wait for energy to return to me.
How am I going to be able to train today?
Treat my body like a temple, my ass. I shouldn’t have had all those shots. What if I put on weight? What if my pace slows? What then? I’ll lose my scholarship. I’ll have to quit school. Rachel will break up with me. I won’t have any friends.
I push my body up, slowly and very carefully rising to my feet. My knees wobble and I stumble forward. My hand braces against the wall. I can hear Alex humming something stupid as he cooks. The sound of sizzling greets my ears, and the smell of eggs wafts toward me, making my stomach gurgle.
I can’t think about food right now. I need to see the damage—know what I did to my body. With one last deep breath, I hobble toward the bathroom. Flinging the door open, I stumble inside, crouching low to grab the scale underneath the sink. My teeth clench as I feel another wave of nausea take over me. My hands shake as I lower the scale to the floor.
I stare down at it, wondering if I should even bother, but I need to know. I can’t hide from the truth. Maybe this will make me work harder, make me take my training seriously. I step onto the scale one foot at a time, waiting for the number and the feeling of disappointment to set in.
After several seconds the number blinks up at me. I stare down at it in confusion. Stepping off, I wait another minute before stepping back onto it. The same number stares back at me.
Huh.
I lost weight.
Two pounds to be precise.
My gaze lifts to the bathroom mirror and I stare back at my reflection. I look terrible: pale, thin, with dark shadows haunting my eyes. I should probably go back to bed, probably order some pizza, but other ideas circle around me, demanding I run. I haven’t fucked up, which means I can still train. I can still beat Alex. I can still be on the team. I won’t have to lose everything.
I run out of the bathroom. Despite my hangover, I feel giddy, ready to take on the world, ready to prove myself to everyone.
“Seth!” I hear Alex shout. “Do you want breakfast? I made eggs.”
“No!” I shout, a smile on my lips. My hands quiver as I dress myself.
“Are you sure? I think it’ll help with your hangover.”
“I’m fine!” I run out of my room, finding my track shoes back near the door. I brush past Alex, ignoring him as I shove on my shoes.
