Rebound by Noelle August Page B

“I . . . do not need an audience for this.”
    Adam hesitates, shooting me a wide-eyed, helpless look. “She’s really sick.”
    “Go on,” I tell him. “Maybe you can keep my father from wresting control of the boat away from Weston.”
    He smiles. “I’ll do my best.” But he stands there, still, looking down at me. Not into my eyes, but at my face, then down at my body. He knows about Ethan—at least that we dated. Do I look different to him now?
    “Really, you can both go,” Mia says. “Or just kill me. If you’re going to stand there, you could do that much for me, at least.”
    “Okay, okay,” Adam says. “Sorry. I’ll go.” To me, he adds, “Let me know if she needs anything, okay?”
    I nod and turn back to Mia, who has hunched into an even smaller version of herself.
    “I’m coming in,” I say.
    “For the love of all that’s holy, why ?”
    “Someone has to hold that giant mass of hair.” I riffle through a few of the cabinets until I find a stack of towels. I run one beneath the water faucet and hand it to her.
    She takes it and wipes her mouth, folds it carefully and dabs it at her forehead. Moisture gathers on her temple, and her tan complexion has a greenish tinge. “You really don’t have to do this.”
    “Please.” I fill a paper cup with water and hand it to her. “I spent four years as a Kappa. You are not the first girl whose hair I’ve held.”
    Her smile is weak but appreciative. She flushes the toilet and shuts the lid. Closing her eyes, she sinks back against the wall, keeping the towel pressed to her forehead. “Why am I not surprised you were in a sorority?”
    I shrug. “We actually did a lot of community projects,” I tell her. “It’s not all partying and boys.” Not that I had much to do with the latter. I spent two of my college years with Ethan. And then it all fell apart. Or I took it apart.
    The boat heaves to one side, and I fall into the narrow space. My shin barks against the small commode, and I almost step on Mia’s hands, but she moves them to steady me.
    “Careful,” she says. “There’s only room for one fatality in here.”
    “You might wish you were dead. But you’re probably not going to die.”
    “I’m not sure that’s comforting.”
    The boat keels again, hard enough to pop open some of the cabinet doors.
    Mia puts a hand to her mouth, and her eyes go wide. “Uh-oh,” she manages, but I’ve already read the signs. I flip up the toilet lid and push her hair away from her face just as she lurches back over the commode. She heaves, and I try to keep her hair under control while also not crowding her too much—tough to do in the modest space.
    “Jesus,” she moans. “This is humiliating.”
    She flushes and hangs over the toilet. I give her more water, and she takes a cautious sip. I want to tell her she’d be better off going up on deck to do what she needs to do. The fresh air would help, but I’m not even sure she’d make it.
    “My dad said it should smooth out, but maybe I should just tell him to turn back. We can do this another day.”
    “No, don’t do that,” she mutters. “This deal . . . I don’t want to screw things up.”
    That makes two of us. It occurs to me we have at least a couple of things in common now: Ethan and this need for things to be right.
    “Let’s get you into one of the cabins to lie down.”
    She nods, and I back out of the space to give her some room. It’s so hard not to ask if she told Adam about how Ethan and I ended. So hard not to ask if Ethan’s forgiven me. Really forgiven me. But now’s not the time.
    Rising, she bends over the tiny sink to splash water in her face. Her color looks a little bit better, but her eyes have the cool sheen of ice. She looks like she’s about a minute from passing out.
    Mia follows me to one of the small staterooms, and I help her onto the bed, even taking off her shoes for her. Her feet are impossibly small, and that makes me laugh for some