Football players are assholes. I know - my brother is their king. Older and annoyingly overprotective, he's the star quarterback at Santa Cruz High School. I love him, but everyone worships the air he breathes and it's suffocating.
After a traumatic...
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How the hell did I get into this position? My closest social attachment, who made each miserable day at school bearable, and responsible for an additional round of puking, patted my back. "Better chuck that all out - fuck me sideways, how do you have more left?"
Harper applied warm pressure on my lower back and gathered my hair. Large burps tore out of my mouth, followed by remnants more disgusting than my projectile release. Safe to say, my dignity was thrown out two rounds ago. The tips of my toes blurred and I drew a shaky breath.
Puking on a stranger's feet! This is beyond embarrassing. How much I disgust him must be immeasurable.
I blushed so hard, my cheeks swelled and a pulse throbbed between my eyes. I couldn't look the poor guy in the face. Not even a jock deserved a puke pedicure.
With a drag of the back of my hand, I wiped my mouth and choked out, "I told you so. Seawater... pukies."
Her pats turned into soft rubs. "I'm sorry, Elle."
With slow breaths, I breathed until the heat that rushed through my body subsided and the weakness behind my knees dissipated. I palmed them and pushed upright, expelling a loud breath. Weakness slowed my movements and the ground blurred. Lightheadedness swayed me into Harper. "Nuh-need to sit down."
A breeze fanned my cheeks before my stomach lurched again. I expelled what was left of its contents, which she buried under sand kicks. This outburst drew gawking eyes. A couple stepped outside the hotdog stand's line and reconsidered their next meal options.
"Ignore them." Harper guided me away from the plank sidewalks' dog walkers, skateboarders, and Segway tourists. I stopped for a few breaths, attempting to ignore the chili dogs, my beloved churros, and nacho cheese smells from that nearby food stand. We sat on our towels, eying random beach departures until my normal breath returned.
"Rinse your mouth." She raccoon rummaged through her bag, passed me a water bottle, then slipped on her coverup. I took a few sips, rinsed my mouth, and spat the water.
"Very lady-like." Jake flopped down by my feet. "I don't know whether to laugh or thank you."
The only positive outcome of getting sick was it redirected him from overreacting. And the other Salesian cockroaches dispersed when my vomit splattered the scene.
I hate football players.
Torn between shoving my one exception's head into the sand and telling him to cool off in an ocean ice bath, I scowled at Jake. "Not funny. Can you avoid threatening to beat someone up for five minutes?"
"Ellie, I'll happily break any hand that's put on you." The wind lifted a few dark strands off Jake's forehead. His muscles flexed on full display as he cupped his hands behind his head and clenched his abs. "Especially if attached to that asshole Hightower."
My stomach buzzed, not from nausea but from my phone. It had to be either our parents or Alex, but waiting until Mister Fists-First calmed down outweighed a message.
