Saint

“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 ru

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?

To my surprise, it’s the swim coach.

Ellis,

I’m sorry you weren’t feeling well today. I was looking forward to seeing you swim. Don’t worry, though, your friend Saint sent me the video of your personal practice, and I’m more than satisfied with the performance I saw in it. There’s a spot for you on my team, if you still want it.

Coach Friedricks

I have to reread the email at least three more times before it sinks in that I’m on the team. What’s even more surprising? Saint’s the one who got me my spot!

When had he filmed me swimming?

I don’t bother to think about why he did it. I’ve got a pretty good idea, and it’s gross.

Just as I’m finishing my fourth read through of the email, there’s a knock on my door. I frown, because there’s only one person I think it could be, and I told him not to bother visiting tonight. Moving across the room, I open my door, and sure enough, Saint is standing on the other side.

“Hey,” I murmur, gazing up at him and feeling overwhelmed with emotions I can’t really explain.

“Hey,” he replies with a tilt of his chin. “Wanted to stop by and check on you. Make sure Laurel hadn’t killed you with those eye drops.”

Eye drops.

Well that explained the diarrhea.

“How’d you get it out of her she used eye drops on me?”

“Laurel’s not great at keeping things from me,” he explains. He seems … off tonight. He’s not trying to come in, and he’s got his hands tucked into his jeans’ pockets in a way that makes him seem nervous.

“Are you okay?” I ask, turning my attention back up to his stormy eyes.

He shakes his head but won’t meet my gaze for a moment. “Yeah, I’m fine. You seem good too, so I’ll just go—”

“Wait!” I reach out and grab his arm to hold him still. He stares down at my hand, then up into my face. “I-I wanted to thank you for what you did. Emailing the swim coach that video and all. She … she said I’m on the team.”

“Good to hear,” he replies, his voice gruff. “Congrats.”

I lick my lips, baffled by his behavior. “Why’d you do it?”

He knew how much I wanted to make the team. Is it possible he sent the video because he knew how crushed I’d be?

He stares down at me for several moments, then dips his head to press a kiss to my forehead.

“Get some rest, little masochist,” he says, offering no answer to my question. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Before I can string together two words to ask him to stay, he’s turned and walking down the hallway, leaving me feeling breathless and more confused than ever.