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My gym clothes are always folded neatly into a cube in my closet, so it pisses me off when I can’t find a single pair of shorts. I know there was a clean pair there yesterday. After quietly ransacking my closet and finding what I’m looking for, I get started with a basic HIIT set.
It’s weird working out without music bursting my eardrums, but I need the violence more than I need the vibrations. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, my flesh pulled taut over my bones. I can’t figure out why, but I just feel off.
The only way to chase that feeling away is to push my body to breaking point—push it until everything hurts and my mind stops replaying the memory of Bellamy telling me he hates me.
By the time I’ve made it through my sets, I’m breathing hard. I bend over my knees, my sweat dripping into my eyes. Blood pulses painfully in my veins, lungs feeling like they’re being crushed in a vise. The pain is good for me. Distracting.
After I stop gasping and finish stretching, I busy myself with making a protein shake. It’s a brave move with a mild hangover, but I need the fuel. One sip and I already want to hurl because of the lumps, so I give up trying to be quiet and shake it aggressively for fifteen seconds, scrunching my nose when I hear Bellamy stir.
I round the corner of the kitchen island just in time to see him sit bolt upright, frantically gulping for breath, his fingers digging into the fabric of the couch. I don’t know if this is a nightmare or—
His hand flies to his stomach as he whimpers, turning a mournful expression on me.
“Are you okay?” I ask, putting my shaker down on the black terrazzo countertop. He shakes his head, pressing a trembling hand against his mouth, swallowing hard.
“You gonna…?” I guess, already moving toward him. He’s swallowing repeatedly, eyes brimming with tears.
He hates throwing up. When I came down with a stomach bug in college, he insisted on sleeping in our neighbor’s room until I was three days clear from it, then disinfected every surface about thirty times.
Bellamy stubbornly shakes his head, but it won’t stop this from happening. Not with the way he’s currently shaking, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Bathroom, now,” I demand, striding over and dragging him to his feet.
“N-no, I—”
“Let’s not repeat your freshman year.” He had this belief that going to the bathroom when he felt sick was just tempting fate. Learned that lesson the hard way when he had his first hangover, and, rather than being sensible and chilling out in the bathroom, he stayed put and ended up puking all over our pushed-together beds while I was asleep.
As soon as I get him in there, he collapses on his knees in front of the toilet bowl. His jaw tightens as he tries to hold it, but it’s futile. I kneel behind him, holding his hair off his face and stroking a soothing pattern down his spine. He retches, whimpering, his hand coming up to tangle with mine. He can barely catch a breath in-between waves of nausea.
“Just breathe, Bels. You’re okay,” I soothe as he chokes on a sob. “Shhh, you’re alright.”
I keep carding my hand through his hair until his breathing evens out and he drops his head in defeat. I’m not the most tender of people, but it’s easy with him. I hate seeing him like this, scared and trembling, skin the color of the porcelain he’s draped over.
“I’m going to get you some water, okay?” He nods, eyes closing as he tips his head against the cool edge of the toilet, tiny tremors still racking his body.
I return lightning-fast with some electrolyte solution in a bottle of water. I offer it to him, telling him to sip it slowly.
It’s killing me, not knowing where the boundaries lie. The lines of what happened last night and what he needs from me now are a blurry mess. Still, I offer him every comfort. Whatever he wants, whatever he needs.
I help him to his feet and deposit him on the couch, then grab my thick comforter from upstairs and throw it over him.
“I hate throwing up,” he whispers weakly, shuddering as he snuggles into the downy prison. It’s like I’m in a time warp—he looks so young right now.
“I know you do. I’ll be right here.”
As he falls back asleep, my eyes drift over to the low cabinets on the other side of the room, black with steel fittings. Unassuming, on the surface.
But buried within, an old checkered shoebox that holds an apology I need to make.
Chapter Nineteen
Bellamy
Put me in a necropolis.
I am never drinking again.
I know everyone says that, but I mean it. I feel marginally better in a physical sense after throwing up, but my nerves are frayed and there’s an awful taste in my mouth I need to get rid of.
