Saint (Angelview Academy #1) - E.M. Snow Page 0,77
talking again. “I get it,” she mutters. “I can see why you’d think that, but what do you care? You don’t even like him. Wouldn’t you rather he pay attention to me and leave you alone?”
She clearly doesn’t know Saint and I are sleeping together, which is a relief. The last thing I needed is her boiling a bunny and leaving it outside my door.
“Look, I don’t know what your history with Saint is, and I don’t want to know. All I can say for certain is he’s a guy that won’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. If he doesn’t want to do you, keeping me busy and away from him isn’t likely going to change that.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she hisses. “Look, you don’t need to believe me, but as a show of good faith, here.” She roots around in her giant designer bag for a moment and then produces a fancy glass bottle of water.
“What’s this?” I ask, instantly suspicious.
“A peace offering,” she explains. “Just for today. To say good luck on your tryouts.”
I eye the bottle like it’s a viper readying to strike.
“What’s in it?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s fucking designer water. Look, the seals not even broken.”
I inspect it more closely, and she that she’s telling the truth about the seal at least. Hesitantly, I reach out and take the bottle from her.
“Thanks, I think…”
“You need to stay hydrated so you don’t cramp up and fuck everything up,” she says. Then, she lifts her nose and marches past me. I guess we’re done with the conversation.
Snorting, I twist off the cap of the peace water and take a healthy swig as I continue on my way to the rec center.
She poisoned me. The bitch fucking poisoned me!
I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have trusted her. I should’ve known she had some diabolical plan up her sleeve. When I got to my locker in the rec center, the door had been opened, which was my first sign that something was seriously wrong. When I looked inside, my school issued swimsuit for the tryouts had the word SLUT written in big red letters on the front. I’d stared at it in horror, my mind scrambling to come up with some way to fix it.
Then my stomach gurgled.
I barely made it to a toilet stall before the disaster started. My stomach was cramping, and it just wouldn’t stop. By the time I was able to stagger out of the stall, my face was wet with tears and my stomach was completely empty, yet still somehow cramping. There was no way I was going to be able to try out for the team in this state. With a choked sob, I ran from the locker room and didn’t stop running until I reached my dorm.
The bathroom drama continued for the rest of the day, and I ignored all messages asking me about the tryouts. I did send a quick email to the coach, explaining how I’d gotten suddenly sick, so she wouldn’t think I’d just bailed for no reason. The only other person I bothered to communicate with was Saint. Just one, simple text to tell him I wouldn’t be in the mood tonight.
4:51 PM: Your girlfriend poisoned me, so no tryouts, and no sex. I’ll be too busy destroying my toilet. Jerk off to that image, asshole.
I had no reason to be so mean to him in my message, but I was angry and heartbroken, and Laurel’s animosity toward me was, in part, because of him. After I sent my text, I turned my phone off and curled up in my bed to cry until I had to run to the bathroom again.
I’ve fallen into a terrible pattern. Curl up and cry, run to the bathroom. Rinse, repeat. By the time night falls, I’m exhausted and totally empty. Any attempts at food have only resulted in immediate trips to the bathroom. I think I might need to go to the ER, but I’m worried about the cost for a visit. Maybe if I make it through the night, it’ll be better by morning?
As I weigh the pros and cons of a trip to the hospital to make sure I’m not dying, my laptop, which is sitting open on my desk, pings. With a groan, I crawl out of bed to see who could be emailing me at this, my lowest point in life?