Page 47 of I Blame the Alcohol

We stopped in front of the battle ropes.

Stella

Inhale…. Exhale…

The humid air of the sauna coats my lungs in a warm blanket, my body sagging with exhaustion. Sweat drips from my nose onto my extended thigh, and I watch the droplet make a lazy trail down my bare leg.

I breathe through the last of my stretches, the ache of hunger sinking in. I’ve only been up for a couple of hours, but dinner feels like a lifetime ago.

Quickly grabbing the discarded tank top from the ground, I spring to my feet, the burst of energy in tune with the burst of hunger.

I sigh with pleasure when I push open the door and a rush of cool air hits me.

“Guess it was my turn for the free show.” Cody grins, his sweat-soaked shirt plastered to every rigid edge of his chest. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, “Mo sent me to grab you to go get breakfast…”

I’m so distracted by the wet t-shirt that it takes me a moment to realize Cody’s smile has slipped from his face and the teasing glint has disappeared from his gaze. He takes a step closer, his eyes trained on my bare torso.

“What happened?”

I freeze, realizing my tank top is still in my hands and not on my body. My tattoo and my scar are on full display.

He swallows thickly as he takes another step forward, “What happened, Stel?”

The pressure builds in my chest until it feels like I’m back in the sauna and my lungs can’t take in enough air.

“My mother was killed in a car crash.”

Cody’s eyes flick to my face, and I can see the understanding dawning.

“You were in the car.”

I nod, dropping my gaze to the ground. I hate seeing people’s pity.

“We got run off the road by a drunk driver. Mom died of internal bleeding, I got away with a few stitches.”

I can feel Cody’s stare, but I refuse to look up. There is one person in this world I do not want sympathy from and that is Taber’s lacrosse captain.

“I think it was more than a few stitches.” His voice is soft, like he’s scared I’m going to flee at any second. Which, for the record, did cross my mind as a viable option.

I force out a painful laugh, “It was just enough to ruin bikinis for me. Anyways, we should probably get going…”

“You don’t wear bikinis?”

“I don’t know if your vision is intact, but this,” I gesture towards the warped skin gracing my side, “Isn’t what people want to see when they go to the beach.”

My ex-boyfriend taught me that. He couldn’t stand the sight of my scar, claimed it turned him off. Said it reminded him of death.

Long story short, we were never going to work out long-term.

Turning so my back is facing Cody, I yank the tank top over my head and tug it past the point of interrogation. He’s still staring at me when I turn around, his expression is unreadable.

“You ready for breakfast?” I interject a false brightness to my tone, pretending we didn’t just dig up years’ worth of grief and physical therapy.

“Yeah.”

He falls silent as we head towards the kitchen, climbing back up the stairs to the main floor. A somber mood falls upon us as we walk, side-by-side, with Cody casting the occasional side glance my way. It doesn’t take long for me to snap.

“What? If you have something to say, just say it.”

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