Jaded

[49] Seven Hotdogs

That was an awful idea. Horrible. Terrible. Straight up deplorable. 

My stomach hurts so much it feels like someone is actively wringing it to dry. And it's refusing to dry so the person is wringing it even more. The worst part is, I made it to 3 hotdogs, but couldn't stuff another one down my throat, so we had to pay $90.

Atty's in much worse shape though. He made it past the 4 mark, decided to keep going for some reason, and now he's not even moving.

We're both seated on a middle step of the multi-meters wide main stairs separating the two levels of the carnival. Neither of us had nearly enough energy to climb back up all the way and hike to the car.

"Baby, you okay?" I ask softly, rubbing his back. In response, Atty slumps lower, beginning to wobble. I guide his head to my lap, giving him time to settle before gently running my fingers through his hair.

Although I initially put his head on my lap to comfort him, I seem to have lucked out because the weight of his head pressed against my stomach is incredibly soothing.

Trying to keep the amusement out of my tone, I ask, "why did you keep going past 4?"

"Competition," he mumbles, accompanied by a quiet whimper.

It's taking a lot out of me not to laugh right now. Atticus Martin, level-headed, always thinking, eat-your-vegetables-do-your-homework Atticus Martin, got pulled into the competitive atmosphere and ate 7 hotdogs. He came in third place, sure, but at what cost?

The man is now folded into a quivering lump of misery and pain, trying not to throw up.

I fish around in my purse and pull out the plastic hotdog key-chain that was his prize. "What do you want to do with this?"

It takes him a moment to answer. "Yours."

"You're giving it to me? Is that what you mean?"

"Hmm."

It's certainly not the prettiest thing I will own, considering that it's not even a classic hotdog figure, it's just the hotdog itself- minus the bun. Truly, a wiener. "I see, thank you."

"Hmm."

I lean forward and kiss his shoulder, then his head. Atty lightly squeezes my knee, which is probably the most he can manage in this weakened state. My champion.

"Once we've regained some strength, we'll try to go to the car again. Okay?"

Atty gives a thumbs up, so that's a 'yes' then.

Perfect.

***/\/\***

"We're here," I say, pulling onto the Martins' driveway.

Back at the carnival, it took a full hour for Atty's stomach to settle down enough for him to walk to the car. Thankfully he was able to talk long before then so it's not like the hour was boring. I learned that an Atty overdosed on hotdogs says the stupidest, funniest, things.

I put the car in park and turn it off. Despite that, Atty only unbuckles his seatbelt. He doesn't reach for the door, instead, he turns towards me. Waiting.

"Right, about the Senator," I mumble.

A part of me was hoping he would forget about it and not ask, but he's Atty so that was never going to happen.

I guess it's only fair for him to want to know. He's been so honest with me these past few weeks. Back at the ice-cream shop, when he broke down in my arms. When he took me to his parent's graves. When he listened about Will and never judged.