Acatalepsy

04

DRAMATIC ASS

Isabel Ariti

- - -

I WAS HUNGOVER.

Despite the fact that I had woken up and thrown up all over myself and my head was pounding as if someone was taking a hammer to it every few seconds, I was going to enjoy my final day in Greece. No exceptions.

So after taking painkillers and sculling at least three bottles of electrolyte water, I took a long, skin-sizzling shower to wash off the vomit, and just honestly make myself feel clean again.

"Carry me," I whined in a mix of pain and exhaustion, dressed in only a little skimpy pink bikini and my white Birkenstocks, sunglasses sitting on the edge of my nose.

"It's not even that many stairs." Ares grumbled, rolling his eyes at me as he reached out, shoving a fat hand against my face and making me stumble back, unprepared for the force.

An arm wrapped around my waist, stabilizing me and I frowned when Ares and the others all ignored me completely, making their way down the long staircased that was going to be an absolute bitch to come back up at the end of the day.

We were at the beach.

It was just all of the kids, as dad and Dante had business to take care of, even though we were technically on holiday, but it was fine. They were high-key haters anyway.

I craned my neck, making my eyes big and sad up at Milo, who didn't even look at me as he pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead, ushering us along.

I huffed at the fact that he was not going to carry me down the stairs, so instead I just sunk into his side, allowing him to hold me against him with the arm he had wrapped over my shoulder.

"Hey, this is where you fell last year." Milo gently nudged me, nodding towards the end step once we stepped onto the beach.

I scowled. "Deon pushed me." I corrected him, making his lips twitch for a split second, before his face dulled once again. He was a bit of a boring dud, but I loved him to death.

Emilio and I had been dating since our junior year of high school, despite having grown up together and living across the street from each other our whole lives, while also indulging in joint holiday celebrations between our families, and weekly Sunday lunches that alternated between my dad's house and his.

Dad and Dante had been betting on Milo and I getting together since we were five, apparently, and almost called off the bet one day when I came home in sixth grade, announcing that I hated Milo and would never speak to him again.

How dare he have called eleven-year-old me a brat?

Of course, I was just being dramatic and we were civil with each other by the end of the week, but from the beginning of middle school, to our sophomore year, Milo and I fought like petty little girls, going back and forth to sabotage each other the best we possibly could.

It wasn't until the first day of sophomore year, when I got my period halfway through the day, leaking through my PE shorts, that Milo and I formed some sort of a truce, which lasted a year of fooling around until we eventually got together in the summer before junior year.

When I realized I had leaked through my shorts years ago, I dropped to the locker room floor and sobbed, so embarrassed that I'd entailed an entire PE lesson without anyone letting me know.

Then, all of a sudden, Milo swung open the locker room door and stormed in, looking as pissed off as he usually did as he zipped up my bag and demanded that I didn't waste his time.