5. Tasha
CHAPTER 5
Tasha
One week later
I should’ve known better.
My stomach seized again, and tears eked out of the corners of my eyes. The projectile vomiting had ceased around 2 a.m., but my gut was still revolting from being violated.
Monty ordered food last night from Pasta Nacht’s, a restaurant that was usually safe for me. I ordered the same gluten-free dairy-free fettucine alfredo every time, and it was fine. They knew me and my food issues. And just in case, I personally called in the order every time to make sure they knew it was for me and reminded them of the consequences if any of the ingredients were cross-contaminated.
Foolishly, I let Monty place an online order. I typed in all the special requests myself, and when our food arrived, the delivery driver assured me they’d been honored, pointing to the extra-long receipt with all my instructions printed on it.
Ha. What did he know ?
I should have called and spoken to the manager on duty.
Instead, I’d spent the night regretting every single bite, and now I was housebound and would miss Penny’s only performance at the Renaissance Faire this summer.
I hated not showing up for her. When my sister’s fingers touched the strings of her harp, I relaxed. She used to play it in the Coffee Loft, but now that she was working there hardly ever, the harp stayed at her and Xavier’s apartment. He’d even made her a music room.
She deserved it. Every bone in Penny’s body was nice. Sweet like the coffee she made for her husband. His hockey season was over, and next week they’d be leaving to visit his family in Calgary. I probably wouldn’t see her again until her birthday in August, when Xavier flew all of his and her relatives to his family’s castle in Europe. He’d inherited his grandfather’s estate and title—Baron von Schwann—making my sister a baroness. Pretty much European royalty.
I pulled my legs up to my chest and texted Monty. I’m sick. Are you going to the Ren Faire? If so, can you record Penny’s performances for me?
He responded right away. I was just about to text you. Sounds like an animal is dying behind your door.
Ha ha, I texted back.
For real. I need to see your face. Penny will ask why you’re not there. I need proof that you’re alive and it’s not an imposter messaging me.
I shook my head. Not gonna happen. So, you won’t go, then?
Maybe. If you ask me nicely.
I rolled my eyes. Normally, I wouldn’t cave to such demands, but I needed this text conversation to be over so I could lie down and close my eyes again. Will you PLEASE go to the Ren Faire and record Penny for me ?
I think I can squeeze it in. Send me the details. And text me if you need anything from the pharmacy or grocery store.
Thanks. And please let Penny know I feel terrible I can’t make it. She’ll understand. Tell her I said she cannoli imagine what I’m going through.
Cannoli was our code word for Italian food. Different cuisines wreaked different havoc on my systems. She’d know by the use of the word I was sick as a dog with digestive issues. I tapped out all the pertinent information and attached the Ren Faire map to my reply, then stretched out on the bathroom rug, bunching a towel under my head for a pillow and praying for sleep.
No sense in going back to bed. I’d just be back here once the current bottle of water I drank processed.
Mercifully, sleep overtook me. When I woke up, the sun had shifted. It’s light no longer shone at full force through my window and the bathroom was dim. Groaning, I sat up and felt around for my phone.
4:47 p.m.
I swiped to check my texts. A few from Penny, plus a missed call and voicemail. And a whole bunch from Monty. Recordings of Penny’s performance alternated with questions about my welfare.
I groaned when my phone rang.
It was him.
I closed my eyes and swiped to answer it, tapping the icon for speakerphone and laying the device on the floor by my head.
“Tasha?” Monty’s deep voice dripped heavily with concern.
“Yeah?”
“Can you unlock your door? ”
“No.”
“I have grape Gatorade for you.”
Tempting. But I couldn’t muster the energy to get up and go to my bedroom door even if I wanted to.
I tried to sound like my normal self. “Put it in the fridge.”
“If you don’t open the door, I’m going to pick the lock. Penny said you’re probably dehydrated. I’m not playing, Tasha. I will call EMS if you don’t let me in and drink this stuff.”
Ugh. I wanted to curse into the phone and tell him where to go with his Gatorade. But I couldn’t, because the truth was, I was weaker than I’d been before my nap. I needed electrolytes, but for now, Gatorade would suffice.
I kicked the bathroom door closed. “Fine. Bring it in and leave it on my desk.”
“Aren’t you going to open the door?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Can’t,” I breathed, admitting defeat.
There was no scuffle at the door; Penny had probably told him we kept the keys to our rooms on top of the doorframes, just in case of emergencies. I pulled my knees to my chest and prayed he wouldn’t try to bust into the bathroom.
I couldn’t let him see me like this.
“Tasha!”
Well, I guess higher powers had other ideas. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know he’d pushed open the bathroom door. And I didn’t need my eyes to tell me when he fell to his knees on the ground next to me.
And I didn’t need my eyes to feel his arm snaking behind my shoulders and gently guiding me into a position conducive to sipping liquid.
I couldn’t have been more mortified if I’d had a wardrobe malfunction at the top of a cheer pyramid. I’d never felt so exposed as I felt in this moment. Sweaty, disheveled, stinking like vomit and whatever else … I’d never live this down.
“Tasha.” His voice cracked as he pulled my head into his lap.
“Your … thighs are harder than the floor,” I gritted out. “Please go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Drink.”
I closed my mouth to protest.
He prodded the rim of the bottle to my lower lip. “And of course my thighs are hard. I work out five days a week.”
“You’re supposed to have rest days, dummy.”
“Rest is for the weak. No drinky, I call nine-one-one.”
I parted my lips in defeat. He hated me enough to follow through on the threat.
The cool grape-flavored liquid coated my tongue. I swallowed slowly, not wanting to incite another round of dry heaves.
Still with my eyes closed, I fumbled to swat the bottle away with my hand. “Enough.”
“Open your eyes.”
“No.”
“You can’t pretend me away. I’m going to help you get to your bed, and you should have your eyes open.”
“No.”
He sighed. “Fine.”
Before I could respond, he maneuvered me so that one of his arms looped behind my back and another was under my knees. As he stood, my stomach groaned loudly.
“Down,” I whimpered. “Please.”
“In a minute,” he cooed.
As Monty carried me to my bed, another wave of nausea hit. My head spun, and I used every ounce of strength I could summon to keep my mouth closed. My cheeks puffed out with each burst of air from my stomach, but I succeeded in keeping the Gatorade on the inside.
Monty set me down gently on my bed, and I rolled to face the wall so my back was to him. “Please go,” I whispered hoarsely, once the heaves had passed.
“Yeah … no. Bucket’s behind you.” A creaking sound signaled he’d found my desk chair and was leaning back in it. “Penny would kill me if you died on my watch. You’re my patient.”
If I had the strength, I would’ve rolled my eyes, even if he couldn’t see them. “I’m not going to die, and I’m not your anything. So, go.”
“Right now, you’re a pain in my backside,” he retorted. “Pretend I’m not here. I’m going to read on my phone and pretend I’m anywhere else.”
“Don’t make me your pity project,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Hard not to pity you. You look miserable. I wouldn’t abandon a sick animal, even if it roared at me or unleashed its claws. So why wouldn’t I sit here and get verbally abused by you?”
My stomach groaned again, and my eyes stung. I didn’t answer his question. Why did it have to be him that was here?
Right. Because I had no one else.
Penny was at the Ren Faire. Gabby was on her honeymoon. I didn’t really have any other friends. Over the years, my friend circle had shrunk to them and a few former-friends-now-acquaintances in the high school group chat. But I knew they had another chat that I wasn’t a part of, for when they made plans to go to places I couldn’t eat food at. For the longest time, I’d eat before I left to hang out and snack on celery and water at dinner. I guess after all the times I said no, I couldn’t eat there, they listened. And stopped inviting me.
I considered calling my mother, but she’d overreact and baby me. I was a grown adult with a bachelor’s degree in sports fitness and a master’s in nutrition. I wasn’t the type to call my mommy every time I had a hangnail.
I could take care of myself. I knew how my body worked. I knew what upset it, and I knew how to fix it.
It would just take a few days. I could rest until Monday, and if I had to call in sick to the Coffee Loft then, Jannell would understand. School was out, and the high school squad didn’t start formal practices until the end of July. The FireVolts practiced on Tuesday and Thursday nights.
My digestive system would be back to normal by Tuesday, I was sure of it.
I must have dozed off again. When I woke up, I was curled up and facing the other direction, under the comforter. Blinking in the darkness, I waited until my eyes adjusted to the sliver of moonlight peeking in from between my curtains.
The desk chair was empty. Good.
My stomach growled a complaint. I should try to drink again. The small bottle of Gatorade was in an ice bucket on my desk, just out of reach on the other side of my nightstand. Tentatively, I swung my legs off the bed and pushed myself up to a sitting position. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I lowered my feet to the floor.
“Ow!”
“Mrow!”
I retracted my legs immediately and peered down. Monty sat up, rubbing at the hip I’d tried to stand on as Parfait shot out of the room.
Evening my startled expression and raising my eyebrows, I snorted. “Really? That hurt?”
“You’re heavier than you look.”
I tilted my head to the side. We both knew that he was capable of lifting girls heftier than me into the air, fully extended, in one hand. “Are you going to move, or should I attempt to leap over you?”
The moonlight reflected in his eyes as he scooted leisurely out of the way for me. “Glad you’re feeling better,” he mumbled.
“Yep, no need for you to play hero—or nurse. I can drink my own Gatorade, thank you very much.” I clutched my stomach as I walked the few steps to the desk. I had to pretend I was fine so he would leave. I’d need to use the bathroom when I finished the bottle, and I didn’t want him here for that.
Monty’s hands beat mine to the Gatorade. He twisted the cap off and held the bottle out to me. I took it and used my other hand to brace myself on the desk. I sipped and stopped. Sipped and stopped. Sipped and?—
“Excuse me.” I set the bottle back into the ice and spun around, hobbling toward my bathroom.
The Gatorade was coming up, and there was nothing I could do this time to hold it back.