Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
“You done?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
She nods, but her mouth twists, and for a second, I think she’s going to lose it all over again. Instead, she sinks back onto her heels and wipes her lips with the back of her hand. “Wow,” she whispers. “That was… icky.”
“Let’s get you off the floor, Sunshine.” I wrap both arms around her and haul her to her feet, ignoring the way her entire body shakes. She sags into me, letting me carry her weight. I can feel the heat of her skin, the way her muscles twitch with every step.
I set her on the closed toilet lid and kneel in front of her, holding the washcloth to her forehead. She closes her eyes and leans into my hand like she’s been waiting all her life for this exact moment.
“I’ll get you some water,” I say.
She grabs my wrist, grip surprisingly strong for someone who just lost everything she’s eaten in the last twelve hours. “Wait,” she says, her voice rough. “Don’t leave.”
I stay right where I am. After a minute, she lets go and rests her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together in a nervous, endless knot.
We sit like that for a long, silent minute. The only sound is the soft whir of the vent fan and Buster’s anxious whining in the hall.
“Are you ready to go back to bed?” I ask as I gently rub her back.
“Let’s try,” she mutters, leaning against me.
I help her stand, walk her back to bed, and tuck her in. Buster hops up and flops down next to her, instantly reverting to his favorite job as the world’s laziest emotional support animal. “I’m going to let you sleep a while.” I place a soft kiss on her forehead. I place her phone on the pillow next to her. “Call or text me if you need anything.”
“I will,” she mutters and snuggles into the covers.
I watch her for a second longer, just to be sure. She tucks the blanket up around her chin, blue eyes already glazed with exhaustion. Buster noses up against her side and starts in with his snoring routine, not even pretending to keep it down. Typical.
I close the bedroom door partway behind me and head for the kitchen, adrenaline still humming in my veins. While she sleeps, I clean the apartment and make a grocery list.
Frustration cuts through me. I want to fix it. I want to fix her, but all I can do is make sure she gets the rest she needs.
I keep busy, but my mind never drifts far from her. I check on her every twenty minutes, like a psycho. Sometimes I just stand in the doorway, watching her sleep. She’s curled up on her side, hugging my pillow, with Buster snuggled in tight against her knees.
After a few hours, she stirs. Blinks at me, face squashed and adorable, hair in wild loops across her eyes. “Hey,” she rasps, barely awake.
“Hey, Sunshine.” I slide onto the bed next to her, stroke her cheek, just to feel the warmth of her skin.
“I feel so much better,” she whispers. And I believe it—the color’s back in her face, and her eyes are clear and bright. Relief floods through my veins, so intense it almost hurts.
We spend the whole day together. No drama, no expectations. Just us planning for the busy week ahead.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of retching.
Motherfucker. It’s the kind of heaving that echoes through the entire apartment, a full-throated, gut-deep wail that peels me out of a dead sleep and straight onto the floor. I stumble out of bed, barely registering that it’s still dark outside, and follow the sound to the bathroom.
She’s there again. Same position as yesterday, hunched over the toilet, face gray and sweat-sheened. Her hands shake as she braces herself on the edge of the bowl. I don’t hesitate—I drop to my knees and gather her hair back, run a damp washcloth over her forehead, and whisper useless comfort in her ear.
“I’m fine,” she lies, voice shredded. “Just need a minute.”
I know better. She’s clammy and trembling, just like yesterday.
Once she’s done, we follow the same routine. I help her clean up and then tell her, “Let’s get you in bed.” My voice comes out gruffer than I mean, but I can’t help it. Something inside me is coiling tighter and tighter, a cold knot of worry that won’t let go.
I lift her off the floor, carry her back to the bedroom, and bundle her under the covers.
Buster sits at the foot of the bed, watching with those huge, worried eyes. He whines, soft and low, then noses under the covers and curls up next to her side.
I go into the kitchen and boil water for tea, then force her to drink half a cup, one sip at a time. She makes a face with each swallow, but she takes it, and when I set the mug down, she leans her head back against the pillows and closes her eyes.