"How much sangria did you drink at dinner?"
I shrug. "Two glasses?" It comes out like a question, and really, it is. There were pitchers, and people were refilling generously, but I didn't think I'd had that much.
"Fuck, Rory." He narrows his eyes at me and I see four of them. Four midnight blue eyes that have seen right through me since they first witnessed my panic attack my first day of school. "Did you take a pill tonight, Rory?" His voice is both hesitant and accusing. Tender, yet firm.
Damn. I try as best I can to focus on his gaze and slowly nod.
Sam's features immediately shift into a scowl. He's furious. "Damn it, Rory! Don't you know you're not supposed to drink on those?!"
"I... I didn't think about it. I didn't want to freak out and ruin everyone's night. I just wanted one night to be normal. I took it before we went out, I... forgot," I murmur contritely.
Sam's expression softens but I know he's still angry with me. For being so careless. For being so stupid. And the fact is, he's right.
"Well, congratulations, Pine. You took drugs and drank and now you're sick. Welcome to teenage normalcy," he says sarcastically. He stands and makes to leave the room but I grab hold of his hand. I don't want him to leave me alone. "I'm just going to get you some water. Look, Rory, you should probably throw up. I think you probably will anyway, but either way, you should make yourself."
I make an exaggeratedly disgusted face and Sam cracks a smile.
"Stop being cute, I'm still mad at you," he says before he turns and leaves the room.
He's back almost instantly and he twists the cap off of a bottle of water and hands it to me. I eye it dubiously. My insides twist.No, I don't believe I'll be drinking this right now.
"I can't. My stomach."
"Come," he says and holds out both hands. I tremble as I slip my small, pale hands into his large, warm ones. I wonder if the rest of me looks this pale.
Damn, I must look awful.No wonder he broke off our kiss.
Sam guides me down to the floor in front of the toilet and gathers my hair in a ponytail, secured with his grip. He rubs his other hand soothingly up and down my back. "You need to throw up, Ror. Trust me, you'll feel better," he says gently.
I can already feel that he's right. In fact, I can already feel that I won't have a choice in the matter one way or the other. I am definitely going to vomit. "Go... away," I choke out.
"Rory..."
"Please.Don't... want you to see me throw up..."
"Yeah, well I don't want to see you in the fucking hospital. So I need you to throw up for me, okay?"
"I'll do it if you leave," I squeak, but our argument over whether or not he will be present for my impending vomiting ends as my stomach wretches and empties its contents into the toilet.
I gag again and up comes more. I want to push Sam away, want privacy for my humiliation, but I can do nothing but succumb to my own body which has other plans.
Four more times I throw up and all the while, Sam holds my hair, rubs my back, and whispers encouragements as if vomiting is some great achievement. When I'm finally sure it's over, I sigh with relief and sit back, leaning my head on the cold porcelain of the toilet seat, aware that it's disgusting, but just not caring.
"That's my girl," Sam whispers.
His girl.If only I could behis girl.And I'm quickly overcome with grief and regret. Regret for what could never be, and for my pathetic self and my inability to control my feelings for this boy.
"Can I please have some privacy now?" I ask pitifully.
Sam mulls it over. "Sorry. Nope. Come on, let's get you cleaned up. I was going to call downstairs for someone to bring up a key for your room, but honestly, Rory, I think I should keep an eye on you," he says as he helps me up and guides me to the sink. I turn on the faucet and rinse my mouth out before splashing water on my face.
Sam pours some mouthwash into a glass and hands it to me and I rinse thoroughly.
I glance in the mirror, and as I expected, the pound of makeup that made me look exceptional earlier, has ended up all in different places than originally intended. I'm pretty sure eyeliner and mascara aren't meant for my cheeks.
"Face wash?" I ask, and Sam hands it to me.
I have to wash my face four times before it looks clean again, but I still look awful. Pale and worn. Sam is bustling around the suite when I come out - he's making up the couch for me.
