Chapter 22
I feel like death.
Death that’s been dead for a while. A looooong while. Death just lying here, next to the toilet, festering and nasty.
Turns out, my stomach does not like spicy tuna rolls. Or at least, ones that must have had bacteria of some sort on them. Because for the last six hours, my stomach hasn’t felt right.
And for the last two, it’s been expelling every bit of everything I’ve eaten or drunk today. Maybe yesterday too, if that’s possible.
Ugh. Okay, Lord, take me now.
I press my forehead against the cool tile of the hallway bathroom floor. If someone were to walk past, they might assume I was simply doing yoga, because I’m killing the child’s pose here with my knees tucked under my body, my arms splayed out in front of me.
But nobody else is here right now. Blake’s probably still working, and Marilee is watching Ryder because Jordan is running an overnight campout.
And that’s good, because I wouldn’t want either one of them seeing me like this.
My stomach rumbles and heaves again, and I sit up—my vision swimming before me—and force my hair back before hurling into the toilet. Seriously. How is there anything left?
I can’t help the tears that come as I ease myself back and lean my head against the wall opposite the toilet. Food poisoning is seriously the pits.
When I first got home from the spa day, I knew something was off, so I lay down on the couch and fell asleep. But the sleep was fitful—full of memories from today, the well-meaning words of my friends—and I woke up with my stomach feeling just as knotted and jumbled as my heart.
And in between rounds of barfing, Kelsey’s words bang around in my brain: “If you really feel the way you do about Blake, then why are you letting him go so easily?”
I want to laugh (but that would hurt), because nothing feels easy at this moment.
And then, as I sit there in the dim light with tears streaming down my cheeks, I hear the front door creak open. It has to be Blake. Oh no. He can’t see me like this.
Then again, I don’t have the energy or strength to shut the bathroom door, even though it’s only two feet away.
“Lucy?” he calls from down the hall, where I hear his keys clatter into the metal bowl on the foyer table. “You here?”
I manage to groan, though I half suspect it sounds like a dying cat, and when he appears in the doorway—his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his khaki pants sporting a tiny grease stain—my tears flow faster.
And it’s not because he’s seeing me like this.
It’s because I’m…relieved.
Not what I expected to feel at all. But I do. Relief that someone more capable than me (at the moment, anyway) is here to take charge.
To take care of me.
His features flicker with concern. “What’s wrong?” He lowers himself beside me and presses the back of his hand against my forehead. Ahhh, it feels even cooler than the tile. “Baby, you’re burning up.”
Did he just call me…?
Aaaaand my body chooses that moment to vomit again. All over Blake’s shirt.
How mortifying.
“I’m so sorry,” I sob, and lie down so my head is once again on the floor.
“Shhh, it’s okay.”
I feel his hand stroke my back, and the touch is so tender I want to die. (I’m sensing a kind of morbid theme going on in my brain tonight. Guess that’s what being sick brings out in me.)
But I can’t believe he’s still here, honestly. My head throbs.
He rustles around for a moment, and I hear something swoosh onto the floor near the door. Peeking up, I see his balled-up shirt lying there. Then, with gentle hands and a “Come here, Sunshine,” he’s easing me up, pulling me between his legs, and leaning my head against his chest, which now sports a white T-shirt that must have been underneath the dress shirt. The cotton is soft and worn against my cheek, and it smells like butter and sage. Like home.
“When did you start feeling sick?” he murmurs.
“A few hours ago. I had sushi at the twins’ birthday and…” My stomach rumbles again. I shut my eyes and manage to stop the room from spinning around me.
“Have you had any fluids since this started?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I could keep anything down.”
“Will you try for me? It’s important to stay hydrated.”
I whimper at the idea but nod anyway. For him.
“Good girl,” he says as he smooths my hair, which probably has puke in it. Sweet macaroni, if this isn’t enough to scare away the guy I’ve finally admitted to wanting, I don’t know what will. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
No. I don’t want to be alone again. I slide my hand from his chest to his taut waist, wrapping myself around him like a pretzel.
He chuckles. “I just need to go get you some meds and Gatorade, okay?”
I shake my head. “Don’t leave.”
Blake kisses the top of my head. “I’m not going to leave you, Sunshine.” His words feel more meaningful than they probably should. He’s not talking about forever. He’s talking about right now. Because I’m sick.
And yet, my stupid heart chooses to find some semblance of hope in his phrasing anyway.
“I promise I’ll be right back,” he continues.
“Okay,” I manage.
“Good girl,” he says again, and I lean forward so he can stand up.
While he’s gone, I throw up again. Twice. Somehow, I manage to stand on shaky legs in front of the bathroom mirror. Must brush teeth. Reaching for my toothbrush, I close my eyes against the rising nausea. This was probably not one of my better ideas.
Opening my eyes again, I take a good look at myself. Holy cow. I forgot that I stripped down to my spaghetti strap shirt and put on my comfy pajama shorts. My hair’s a rat’s nest, my makeup long gone—literal tear tracks mapping their way down my cheeks—and I look pale and worn out, like I imagine a new mom might, but without the glow of motherhood to back her up.
Blake appears behind me. “What are you doing?”
“I look terrible.” That’s not what I meant to say, but my brain is so muddled, and my stomach hurts, and I just hate feeling weak like this.
I start to cry again.
“Aw, Sunshine. It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you.” Before I know what’s happening, Blake scoops me up and holds me against his chest as we leave the bathroom and make our way to the couch, where I can see he’s made a little nest for me of blankets and pillows. There’s an old emesis basin sitting on the coffee table, along with some water, some grape Gatorade, and the ugly pink of a Pepto-Bismol bottle.
With slow movements, he lowers me onto the couch and leans down beside me. Pulling a blanket over me—I’m suddenly shaking—he smooths back my hair and looks me in the eyes. “And you don’t look terrible. Even sick, you are the most breathtaking woman I have ever seen.” Blake pauses, tilts his head. “And when you are all better, we’re going to have a talk about what that means, okay?”
I shiver and tuck my chin under a quilt my Aunt Bea made. “Okay.” Bossy Blake is back, and I couldn’t love it more, even when he makes me take the medicine—and I vomit it up—and drink fluids until I can hold them down.
All through the night, he takes care of me until my stomach finally settles and I can sleep.
I wake up once in the middle of the night, squinting through the dark to find him sitting on the opposite end of the couch, my feet on his lap, his fingers resting on my toes, where I vaguely remember him giving me a massage at some point. His head is leaned back against the couch cushions, and a little snore rumbles in the back of his throat.
He kept his promise. He didn’t leave.
And foolish though it might be, my heart dares to keep on hoping. To keep holding onto his words: “When you are all better, we’re going to have a talk about what that means.”