NORMAL (36 page)

"Rory, you're
drunk.
Whether you kissed me first or not, I shouldn't have let that happen, you're my friend," he murmurs, his words shrouded in guilt.

I slide off of my perch and cover the distance between us, looking intently into his eyes so he knows I mean what I say.

"Please, Sam. So, I'm drunk. So
what?
Half the girls in Miami hookin' up with strangers tonight are drunk. And you ain't a stranger, you're my friend. I trust you," I explain, as I look up at him through my lashes. I tentatively run my hands up the front of his shirt, and just feel of his body under my fingertips gets me all worked up all over again. "It's not like I'm a virgin. You don't need to worry. I've never felt this way before, please, I just wanna know what it feels like to do it because
I
wanna do it. Because it makes
me
feel good. Please, Sam," I say the last part in a whisper and lean up to kiss him softly.

When he doesn't immediately push me away I move my lips a little more firmly, but he only reciprocates for a moment before gently grabbing my wrists to stop the exploration of my fingers, and pulling his mouth away. His expression is a mixture of concern and confusion. I stumble a step before catching my footing.
I really am drunk. And actually a little dizzy.

"What do you mean you want to do it because
you
want to do it? What other reason is there?"

I shrug. I don't understand why we're
talking
about this when we could be
doing
it, and I want to get this conversation over with quickly and see if I can get him to kiss me back again.

"You know,
because
. Because I had to. It ain't like I always got a choice," I murmur. "But now I
want
to. I've never wanted-"

"What do you mean you had to? That you didn't have a choice?" he interrupts, and he's suddenly too serious.

Did I just say something I shouldn't have?

My mind is cloudy with alcohol, and with all of the secrets I've confided to Sam, and all the ones I'm still keeping, I'm not sure which is which right now.

"Rory. What did you mean?" He asks slowly and carefully.

I don't know what I meant, I honestly don't even remember exactly what it was that I
said
. My stomach turns as the dizziness in my head conspires with the nausea in my belly to make me feel ill, and I close my eyes briefly to get it all to settle and try to focus on the here and now.

"I just meant... that right now, drunk or not, I know what I want, and I want-"

My words are cut off with a gag
. Oh, shit.

Sam's face is etched with worry and I'm no longer confident that I can push this sick feeling back down.

"Ror? Ror, are you okay?"

The room spins and all I can do is squeak out "sick" before my legs give out.

Sam catches me with a muttered curse and I'm suddenly being held to his chest, my legs dangling over one of his strong arms as he makes his way to his bathroom. He sets me down on the edge of the tub and I clutch the tile edge as tightly as I can to hold myself in a sitting position. Sam's doing something, but I can't see what, I'm too busy trying to figure out if closing my eyes makes it better or worse.

Oh,
God
,
worse. Definitely worse.

I hear the faucet turn on, then off, and then Sam is kneeling in front of me and placing a cold, wet, washcloth on my forehead.

"Fuck, Ror, you only had three drinks at the bars. You didn't take any drinks from anyone else, did you?" he asks, obviously deeply worried.

I shake my head.
I didn't
. "No, you told me not to," I assure him shakily. He runs his fingers through his hair, and vaguely I wonder if it's really that big of a deal. I mean it's a rite of passage for every normal teenager to drink too much and get a little sick, isn't it?

"How much sangria did you drink at dinner?"

I shrug. "Two glasses?" It comes out like a question, and really, it is. There were pitchers, people were refilling generously, but I didn't think I'd had that much.

"Fuck, Rory." He narrows his eyes at me and I see four of them. Four midnight blue eyes that have seen right through me since they first witnessed my panic attack my first day of school. "Did you take a pill tonight, Rory?" His voice is hesitant and yet accusing. Tender, and yet firm.

Damn
. I try as best I can to focus on his gaze and slowly nod. His features immediately shift into a scowl. He's furious.

"Damn it, Rory! Don't you know you're not supposed to drink on those?!"

"I... I didn't think about it. I didn't want to freak out and ruin everyone's night. I just wanted one night to be normal. I took it before we went out, I... forgot," I murmur contritely.

Sam's expression softens but I know he's still angry with me. For being so careless. For being so stupid. And the fact is, he's right.

"Well, congratulations, Pine. You took drugs and drank and now you're sick. Welcome to teenage normalcy," he says sarcastically. He stands and makes to leave the room but I take hold of his hand. I don't want him to leave me alone here. "I'm just going to get you some water. Look, Rory, you should probably throw up. I think you probably will anyway, but either way, you should make yourself."

I make an exaggeratedly disgusted face and Sam cracks a smile.

"Stop being cute, I'm still mad at you," he says before he turns and leaves the room.

He's back almost instantly and he twists the cap off of a bottle of water and hands it to me. I eye it dubiously. My insides twist.
No, I don't believe I'll be drinking this right now.

"I can't. My stomach," I murmur.

"Come," he says and holds out both hands. I'm trembling as I slip my small, pale hands into his large, warm ones. I wonder if the rest of me looks this pale.

Damn, I must look awful.
No wonder he broke off our kiss.

Sam guides me down to the floor in front of the toilet and gathers my hair in a ponytail secured with his grip. He starts rubbing his other hand soothingly up and down my back.

"You need to throw up, Ror. Trust me, you'll feel better," he says gently.

I can already feel that he's right. In fact, I can already feel that I won't have a choice in the matter one way or another. I am definitely going to vomit.

"Go... away," I choke out.

"Rory..."

"
Please.
Don't... want you to see me throw up..."

"Yeah, well I don't want to see you in the hospital. So I need you to throw up for me, okay?"

"I'll do it if you leave," I squeak, but our argument over whether or not he will be present for my impending vomiting ends as my stomach wretches and empties its contents into the toilet.

I gag again and up comes more. I want to push Sam away, want privacy for my humiliation, but I can do nothing but succumb to my own body which has other plans.

Four more times I throw up and all the while, Sam holds my hair, rubs my back, and whispers encouragements as if vomiting is some great achievement. When I'm finally sure it's over I sigh with relief and sit back, leaning my head on the cold porcelain of the toilet seat, aware that it's disgusting, but just not caring.

"That's my girl," Sam whispers.

His girl.
If only I could be
his girl.
And I'm quickly overcome with grief and regret. Regret for what could never be, and for my pathetic self and my inability to control my feelings for this boy.

"Can I please have some privacy now?" I ask pitifully.

Sam mulls it over. "Sorry. Nope. Come on, let's get you cleaned up. I was going to call downstairs for someone to bring up a key for your room, but honestly, Rory, I think I should keep an eye on you," he says as he helps me up and guides me to the sink. I turn on the faucet and rinse my mouth out before splashing water on my face.

Sam pours some mouthwash into a glass and hands it to me and I rinse thoroughly.

I glance in the mirror and as I expected, the pound of makeup that made me look exceptional earlier, has ended up all in different places than originally intended. I'm pretty sure that eyeliner and mascara aren't meant for my cheeks.

"Face wash?" I ask, and Sam hands it to me.

I have to wash my face four times before it looks clean again, but I still look awful. Pale and worn. Sam is bustling around the suite when I come out - he's making up the couch for me.

"Sam, I think I'm okay, I just wanna get to bed," I murmur.

"That's the plan," he replies.  

I walk over to him and eye the couch without enthusiasm. It does not look especially comfortable. Especially not with a big comfy king bed on the other side of the wall. I look at the door that adjoins our rooms longingly.
I should have just listened to Sam.

While he goes back to use the bathroom I kick off my boots and socks. I can sleep in my tank top but...

I pad back into his bedroom.
How come he gets to close the bathroom door for privacy?

Feeling like I'm doing something illicit I open the drawers in the bedroom chest and find his underwear in the second drawer. It's organized pristinely, every item - even his underwear - neatly folded. I feel a little naughty going through them - mostly boxer briefs - and I ignore the simmer of desire that reignites low in my belly. Sam was right, I do feel much better now that I've thrown up, but I'm thoroughly mortified. I find a pair of blue striped boxers and snatch them, scurrying out of the room before he can come out, and hastily close the door.

Once I'm back in the living room, I step out of my skirt and slip on his boxers. I take my bra off under my shirt and fold it neatly with my skirt on the arm of the couch. I slip under the blanket Sam laid out on the couch and curl up on my side. I was right, it is definitely not very comfortable, but it will do. I wonder if he will just go to sleep or come out and say goodnight. I'm not even sure which I prefer right now. I'm so damn embarrassed.

Operation: Normal Rory was a complete disaster. I don't know why I thought I could have even one night of happiness. Why I thought Sam would want to hook up with me in the first place. He's certainly never given me any indication that he wanted me like that. I don't know what I was thinking. And then I threw up! Right in front of him.
God, what is wrong with me?
I close my eyes and drown in shame.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks. I hadn't even heard him come out of the bedroom. I don't answer, I just look up at him, confused. "You're not sleeping there," he says.

I sit up, humiliated once again. He said he wanted to keep an eye on me and made up the couch, what else could that possibly have meant other than that he wanted me to sleep here?

"The couch is for me, Rory. You take the bed." He holds out his hand to stop me when I open my mouth to argue. "Not a chance. Come on, Ror, let me be a gentleman."

"I wish you were less of a damn gentleman," I grumble under my breath in reference to his stopping whatever it was that might have happened between us earlier. Sam chuckles. I hadn't meant it to be funny.  

I take his proffered hand and climb off of the couch. He looks me over and his breath catches.
Oh damn, I forgot I stole his underwear.

"Sorry," I murmur as I drag my feet to the bedroom.

"Help yourself," he replies with another chuckle and follows behind.

I turn up the cover and begin to crawl into the big comfy bed. "You gonna tuck me in?" I tease since he's followed me in here.

"Something like that... You're okay, right? That I'm here, I mean." Now he's worried I'm going to panic. Not even close.

I lie down in bed and roll over to face him. "Yeah, Sam. I've told you, I trust you. I'm pretty sure you can't trigger me anymore. Not unless you did something intentionally to."

"I would
never
-"

"I know."

Sam sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. He leans down and kisses me chastely on my forehead. It's incredibly intimate and affectionate and it warms my heart that he still cares for me after tonight's embarrassing display. He's a good friend.

"Goodnight, Ror. Look, if you wake up and you don't feel good, or you need something, anything, wake me up, okay? I mean it," he says softly.

"Thanks," I breathe.

Sam smirks. "I got you, Pine. What-"

"
are friends for
, I know."

And with that, he leaves, shutting the door gently behind him.

****

The championship game is over. Sam hugs me and smiles. We've won. He's happy.

Robin glares at me from across the field. He scowls. We've lost. He's angry.

"Don't leave me alone," I plead to Sam.

He smiles wistfully. "Sorry, Ror, we're just friends, remember?"