Ocean Blue ✓

chapter thirty-four

alyssa

I wake up to sunlight filtering through Dusty Springfield's windows, bathing my bare legs in warmth. They're red, stinging, and irritated, but honestly, I've seen them worse. My whole body aches, but it's quieter now, more subdued. The usual numb yet irritable soreness that I've grown accustomed to is gone.

I'm able to lift my head up. I vaguely remember Elliot helping me out of my clothes before I fully fished out, but honestly, that easily could have been some sort of pain-induced fever dream. My ears feel fuzzy, and I can literally feel how stuffy my sinuses are.

But there she is, scrunched awkwardly in the driver's sweat, her lanky legs pulled up tight against her chest as she browses her phone. She glances back and jolts when she sees I'm awake.

And then she smiles, and my heart skips several beats.

"Hey," she says, "you're awake."

"Are you okay?" The panic of last night, along with the puke-inducing upset wrought by those disgusting Instagram posts, is fresh in my mind.

"I'm fine," she assures me. "It's taken care of."

"Taken care of?"

Elliot doesn't answer my question. "Are you okay? Last night—early this morning—was bad, Alyssa."

She shouldn't be asking how I am. This is my normal. "I'm fine. Also, I thought we agreed I was Fishsticks." I want her to get back to telling me how she's feeling.

She smiles again, her forehead wrinkling. It reminds me of her dad in a strange way. "You're Fishsticks, yes. But, are you sure you're fine?"

Okay, so I haven't tried moving-moving to see if I'm actually fine. I'm prepared for a complete non-response from my leg closest to the edge of the seats, but it moves ... just fine.

I can hardly believe it as I lift both of my legs. It hurts when I pick them up too high, yeah, but this isn't the complete paralysis I was bracing myself for. The complete paralysis I was expecting.

The backs of my eyes prickle. I blink to fight off tears. "I can move." It comes out this hoarse, choked whisper.

Elliot weaves one of her impossibly long arms back behind the driver's seat and gives my shoulder a tight squeeze. It aches, yeah, but I can move. I can move.

"I'm okay," I sigh and settle my head against the seats. "Fuck."

"I'm so happy for you," she says. She drops her hand, leaving it resting against the center console. "God, I'm so fucking happy for you."

I don't respond for a minute. We both just bask in comfortable, elated silence. Then I ask, "Just how is last night taken care of?"

"So." She sighs. "Chlo called."

"What? Seriously?"

Elliot's breath feels heavy. It weighs down the van when she sighs once more. "Yeah."

"And?"

"We had a ... very serious talk. About Brooklin and Taffy, mainly."

The mention of their names makes my skin crawl. I don't think I've yet comprehended how angry I am. Not just at them, but at the human race in general. How can people like them exist, seemingly only to tear down people like Elliot? It's disgusting, and cruel, and I hate that this is something that requires wrapping one's mind around.

"The Instagram posts are deleted."

I wince from trying to raise my head too fast. "What?"

"It was her." Elliot's breath is shaky. I hold up my hand, and she takes it, giving me a hard squeeze. She focuses her gaze on the orange-pink-lit beach outside the window.