Page 65 of Sunday Morning

“Matty’s going to bed with blue balls. He just doesn’t know it yet.” He snickered, sauntering toward the back door with four cans of beer dangling from a six-pack ring, the sandwich in one hand, and his guitar in the other.

When I reached the top of the stairs, Matt was sitting on the end of his bed. “Come here.” He smiled.

I couldn’t help but smile too. Matt was a good guy, and his joy rubbed off on everyone around him.

Except for his brother.

Joy and Isaac didn’t belong in the same sentence. He was a lot of things, but joyous wasn’t one of them.

“Shut the door,” Matt said as I stepped into his room.

I closed it and padded my bare feet toward him, and that’s when his gaze seemed to focus on my shirt for the first time that night. It elicited a frown, but I still stepped between his spread legs and rested my hands on his shoulders. I was fully prepared to have sex with him. I had endured worse. It wasn’t so much that I was taking one for the team since there wasn’t Team Sex, but I either needed to blow up everyone’s world or bide my time for the summer. And biding my time meant sex.

Hookers did it. Surely, they didn’t enjoy it. But at least they got paid for it. The fact that I kept equating my behavior to hookers wasn’t a good sign.

“Sarah, how am I supposed to feel okay about doing this when you’re wearing that shirt?”

I shrugged. “I assumed I’d take off the shirt. It’s not like I’m going to ride you with it on, so the whole time you’re reminded that Jesus loves me. He loves you, too, even if you’re having premarital sex.”

Matt looked disgusted. I remained nonchalant, acting like it wasn’t planned or a big deal. When his shoulders sagged with disappointment, I caved and removed my shirt.

“Better?” I asked.

He shook his head and covered his mouth while bolting out of the room.

“Matt?” I plucked my shirt off the floor and followed him while threading my arms through it.

He slammed the bathroom door and hurled.

The door was locked, so I gently knocked. “Matt, are you okay? Open the door.”

Again, he retched, and I wrinkled my nose with my handresting on the door like I wanted to rest it on his back and comfort him.

“S-Sarah … I don’t want you to see me like this,” he said with a weak voice.

“Matt, everyone gets sick. It’s fine. Open the door. Do you think it’s food poisoning?”

“I don’t?—”

For a third time, he vomited.

“What can I get you? I can see if there’s some ginger ale or 7UP. Want me to do that?”

“S-sure.”

I jogged down the stairs and checked the fridge, but there was only a partial liter bottle of Squirt. When I poured it into the glass, it didn’t even fizz, but I took it upstairs anyway.

“There was only Squirt, so that’s what I have. Can you please unlock the door?”

“Just set it outside. Go home. I’m begging you.”

“I don’t have a car.”

“Take mine.”

“I’m not driving your car. If anything happened, your dad would be upset.”

“Just … Sarah …” he released a noise that sounded like a mix between a sigh and a moan.