For a bit at least, and then I start to trace my hands down my chest. I started on blockers just too late to avoid wearing binders or getting top surgery. I remember my doctors recommending me cream, saying that my scars would eventually fade on their own, but the cream would help. It did help at first, with how tender everything felt, but eventually, when I felt healed, I stopped using it. I don’t really know why, maybe because I like my scars. I like showing them off … at least to myself.

Then lower, there’s my stomach that hangs over my waist, and stretch marks on my hips. These parts of myself that I’m expected to hate so much, that are so ugly to other people whose opinions of my body shouldn’t matter.

And they don’t.

At least Josh appreciated them. The way his hands moved, it seemed like he couldn’t get enough of my chest, and he never cared about my weight.

“You okay in there?” Wyatt’s voice echoes off the tiled walls.

“Yes,” I say. I reach toward the knob, turning off the water. I stand there for a bit longer, my soaked hair hanging on my forehead. I towel off, slip back into my clothes, and pull back the shower curtain.

“Better now?” Wyatt asks me.

That’s when I feel it, the sudden heat in my stomach and the rise of the bile at the back of my throat.

“I’m going to vomit,” I say.

“What?”

And then I empty what little contents are in my stomach all over Wyatt’s shoes.

*  *  *

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” I say as Wyatt tucks me into bed, pulling my sheets up to hide my shame. I don’t want to see the look on his face.

“It’s fine,” Wyatt says, though he sounds exhausted.

“Why do you even wear those things?” I ask him, peering over at the freshly scrubbed lime-green Crocs at the foot of his bed.

Seriously. Lime. Green. Crocs.

My vomit did them so many favors.

“Have you seen our classmates?” he replied. “I don’t trust any of them to treat their athlete’s foot properly.”

“Fair enough.” I turn over. “I’ll still buy you a new pair.”

“It’s fine.”

I know that it isn’t; I can tell from the tone of his voice. And how am I ever going to live down Fowler having to take care of me while I was drunk? He’ll never let me forget it, but he’ll never actually use it against me because he’s too nice. He’ll just let the guilt hang there.

“This day has fucking sucked,” I say, not caring one bit if Wyatt is paying attention.

“You’re telling me.”

“It’s all Josh’s fault.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you so sure?” Wyatt’s voice is quiet.

“Yeah.”

“Did you two break up?”