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Then, everything hits me at once. My eyes pop open as I scramble for my phone. It’s on the floor next to my bed, hidden under a pile of clothes. When I uncover it, the blaring alarm grows louder, and I curse to myself when I see the time.
I’m late.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I shout as I scurry out of bed and rush toward the pile of clothes on my dresser. The moment my feet hit the floor, the room starts to sway and my head becomes a balloon, weightless and woozy. Nausea blooms in my stomach.
With a hiss, I freeze and grab my head, waiting for the blood, bile, and oxygen to return to where it belongs inside my body.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was up until four in the morning doing tequila shots instead of reading a dusty old literature book.
Oh no. Don’t think about tequila.
My stomach clenches, and I swallow down the excess saliva in my mouth.
Get it together, Sadie.
After an eternity spent convincing my stomach not to revolt against me, I grab a pair of leggings and a T-shirt from the pile and quickly get dressed. By the time I make it out the door with only my book, a pen, and a notebook I had to buy to keep Dr. Goode off my ass, I know I’m going to be late.
Really late.
And I’d skip it altogether, but if I miss class, then I have to talk to him to get the lecture I missed, and I’d rather eat my own socks than have another private conversation with that pompous dickhole.
It’s been four weeks since the start of the semester, and I’ve managed to go mostly unnoticed this long. Four down. So many to go.
Although who am I kidding? If Luke sticks around to teach English 102, it’s more than likely I’ll be stuck with him again next semester. No need to stress about that now. At the moment, the only thing I need to do is get through this semester.
By the time I park my car and start my sprint across campus, my stomach does another somersault, but I choose to ignore it. My forehead breaks out in a cold, damp sweat.
My limbs turn heavy like mud.
I have myself convinced that all I need to do is get my ass in my seat and I’ll be fine. I’m just a little out of shape.
But the moment I fly through the Humanities Building and the cold air-conditioning hits my skin, it’s all over. I pull open the door to my English class and turn absolutely useless in the fight against my own stomach.
Just before I dive toward the very small trash can near the door, I lock eyes with Dr. Goode. His brows are practically in his hairline, and his mouth is hanging open in shock at my sweaty, pale appearance.
And then I’m hurling loudly into the metal can, the eyes of roughly seventy-five people boring into my clammy form as I drop to my knees and expel last night’s dinner and any shred of my dignity.
“Miss Green,” Lucas says as he stands over me. “Are you all right?”
With my face still buried in the metal vomit can, I lift my arm to give him a thumbs-up.
He lets out a sigh of exasperation. And I’d sooner wear this can as a hat before I’d turn to look into those disappointed eyes.
“Class is dismissed early,” he announces loudly. “Use this extra time to work on your essays. They’re still due next week and my email is available for rough draft analyses if you think you need it.”
I fold my arms over the trash and rest my cheeks on them, squeezing my eyes shut as the entire class stampedes past me. I feel like one of those village idiots they put in the stockades so people can throw tomatoes at them as they go by.
Hear ye, hear ye. Feast your eyes on the world’s biggest hot mess and royal fuckup.
I really should have stayed in bed.
When the room grows quiet, I clench my eyes tighter, squeezing out a few tears. Then, something soft touches my cheek. I lift my head and stare at the tissue Dr. Goode is handing me.
In his other hand is a bottle of water.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble as I reach for the tissue and quickly wipe my mouth. He doesn’t reply as I take the water and uncap the lid before guzzling down half the contents.
“Are you sick?” he asks.
