Page 147 of Run Away Home: Tempered

“Bye,” I say as calmly as possible.

He puts the Gatorade on the coffee table and goes into the bathroom once more. I stare at the bottle.

“I thought you were leaving?” I yell from the living room.

“Yeah, I am. I just... I’ll be right out. Coffee always makes me feel sick. I don’t know why I drink it. Should switch to tea!”

I run into the kitchen and check the sink. There it is. The empty coffee mug.

Peter

IPULL INTO THE PARKINGlot of the apartment complex. It’s only one o’clock, but I feel terrible. Once I park, I rest my head on the steering wheel for a few minutes. Maybe this is a really bad migraine? A stomach virus? I’m sweating profusely. I reach into the cup holder and pick up my Gatorade, taking a sip. They usually suggest electrolytes for a hangover, so maybe they’ll help now too?

I get out of the car and walk into the apartment. There she is, still on the couch. I have nothing to say to her.

“You’re home?” she asks.

“Yeah. I really don’t feel well. I just couldn’t make it through the day. I’m going to lay down before I go to McAlister’s tonight.”

“If you don’t feel well, maybe you shouldn’t go.”

“I can’t lose that job.” I gulp down some more of my Gatorade. Hayley’s staring at me. It’s a wee bit uncomfortable. “What?”

“I just don’t think you should be serving drinks sick...getting everyone else sick.”

“Maybe I’ll just see how I feel later.”

“What do you feel like?”

“My head is hurting, and I’ve been vomiting and shitting all morning. Would you like to know more?”

“Nope. That’s enough.”

“Thought so.”

In my room, I fall onto the bed. There are cramps in my chest and abdomen like I’ve never felt before. Maybe I can sleep it off. I take a few more sips of my Gatorade and put the bottle on my nightstand. I have a few hours to spare.

Hayley

“YEAH, HE’S HOME. HE’Ssleeping. He only stayed at his first job for about an hour...said he doesn’t feel good.”

I hear banging coming from Peter’s bedroom.

“Tristian, I have to go,” I whisper.

“Do you need me to come there?” he asks.

“No. Just let me go. Bye.” I hang up the phone.

I walk down the hallway and into Peter’s room. He’s sitting on his bed, shirtless, and holding a small garbage pail. His face is inside of it. His chest and arms are shiny with sweat.

“Are you throwing up?”

“Yeah...” He gags into the bin. “I feel better right after I vomit, but then I start feeling sick again...even worse than before. It’s so strange.” He picks up the Gatorade bottle and chugs.

“Yeah... That’s weird.”

“I’m feeling okay right now, so I’m going to work.” He tries to stand. He stumbles a little but doesn’t fall.

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