Page 34 of Before I Loved You

Suddenly, her eyes widen in horror as her hand clamps down over her mouth. She quickly sprints toward the back of her apartment to, I assume, the bathroom.

Shit. Good job, Paul. Guess it’s not the common-day cold.

I walk inside, shutting the door behind me as the ever-familiar heaving sound fills the apartment. Quickly, I place the bag and the soup on the counter and then head to her bathroom, where I find her kneeling, praying to the porcelain god.

Her back hunches as she grabs the toilet seat and once again heaves out whatever is inside her. I stand behind her and pull her hair away from her face, keeping it in one hand as my other hand gently rubs her back. She stays like this for a minute or two before her body finally relaxes, and I reach over her to flush the toilet.

“Please go away, Paul. You don’t want to see this,” she mumbles, placing her cheek on the toilet seat.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I assure her.

I see a bottle of mouth rinse and a washcloth on the counter beside it. Obtaining a cap full of the mouth rinse, I hold it out for her to take. She looks at it hesitantly before grabbing it from me with a shaking hand, throwing it back, gurgling, and finally spitting it in the toilet. I then hold the washcloth under cold water before wringing it out. When I look back at Sarah, her eyes are closed, as though she is about to fall asleep with her head on the toilet seat, which won’t do.

“Okay, you’re not sleeping here.” I reach down, placing one arm under Sarah’s knees and another around her waist, pulling her up against my chest. She doesn’t fight it like I thought she would and instead nuzzles her head into the crook of my neck.

“Why are you such a nice guy? You’re making this so much harder for me,” she murmurs, the scent of her minty breath wafting into my face.

“Being nice is making things hard for you?” I ask, confused.

She remains silent, clutching onto the center of my shirt as I walk into her bedroom.

It’s different than I would have imagined. Her bedding is all white with a black throw and black accent pillows. Her white curtains are draped to the side, revealing her view of the city all lit up. And it looks like a collection of new art supplies is in the corner of her room, left alone and in their original wrappings. The pristine white walls are bare and vacant from any photos or decorations. Overall, it’s very plain. Some may even say it’s depressing.

For an artist, I thought there would have been more color in her room—more life. But instead, it feels a bit desolate, reminiscent of a blank canvas. It’s as though all the life and color drained from the space within these four walls.

“Sometimes it’s easier to see the world in black and white.”

I ponder her words. It might be easier, but it sure as hell isn’t a life worth living, and I’ll be damned if I let her continue living like this for another second.

I lay her body on the bed, bring a blanket up to her chest, and then lightly press the folded washcloth on her forehead as I sit beside her, my knuckles stroking her jaw. I don’t know if the damp cloth is needed, but again, it’s just one of those things my mom always did for me.

Without warning, my eyes spot the ugliest damn thing I’ve ever seen in my life on the side of the bed beside her. I pick it up, examining it as I hold it between two fingers, not letting it any closer in fear of catching a disease.

This right here is what they would call Patient One.

“What in God’s name is this?” One of the eyes is hanging by a thread, and the rest of its fur looks matted and worn.

Sarah’s eyes pop open, and she quickly snags the little gremlin from my hands. “Don’t touch Teddy.”

“You named your teddy bear…Teddy?” I ask, my lips curving up. “I’m disappointed.” I tsk. “I took you as someone a little more creative than that.”

“I was nine when I got him.” She closes her eyes. “My creativity hadn’t flourished yet.” Her hands clutch it to her chest, holding on to it for dear life like it’s the most valuable thing in her life.

And maybe it is, even if it looks like it would be happier living at the bottom of the trash barrel.

I watch her taking gradual, deep breaths, rubbing her stomach.

“How are you feeling?” I cup her cheek, checking for any sign of a fever, but thankfully, she’s as cool as a cucumber.

Her eyes flutter open. “I’m fine.” She releases a rush of air. “I must have eaten something that didn’t agree with me.”

I nod. “Sorry about the soup.”

She lets out a weak laugh. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“I will. Probably won’t be able to sleep tonight because of it,” I joke, but it’s true.

Her smile wavers as she watches me. She bites her bottom lip and closes her eyes, an internal war raging inside her head. Right before opening her eyes, she whispers, “You should stay here then.”

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