Page 51 of Huge Pucking Play

I groan and pull the blanket over my head, but the images keep flashing behind my eyelids, humiliation fresh as a new bruise.

My phone sits face-down on the nightstand. I can't bear to look at it yet.

After I had escaped to the bathroom, last night Sophie showed up almost immediately. She helped me get cleaned up while I completely freaked out.

My phone had buzzed with a text.

Garrett: OMG. Are you alright?

Me: Just wounded pride. Other than that, I feel okay.

Garrett: Are you coming back?

Me: No. Heading home so I don’t infect anyone.

Garrett: Let me know if I can do anything.

Me: I’ll be okay. Just need some time to sleep it off.

I managed to escape soon after, assuring Sophie I could get myself home, that it was just something I ate.

Oscar whines, sensing my distress. He licks my hand, his brown eyes full of doggy concern.

"At least you won’t hold it against me," I whisper, burying my fingers in his thick fur. "You've seen me at my worst and still think I'm amazing."

He woofs softly in agreement, his tail thumping against my leg. “I love you too, buddy.”

My stomach roils again, a not-so-gentle reminder that whatever hit me last night isn't done. I press my face into Oscar's fur, grateful for his presence, wishing I could disappear into his uncomplicated world where the only thing that matters is the next walk, the next treat, the next belly rub.

Eventually, I drag myself to the kitchen with Oscar padding behind me. My usual morning energy is AWOL, replaced by a hollow feeling that reminds me of the flu I caught during finals my senior year. The thought of food makes my stomach clench, but I know I need something.

"Just toast," I tell Oscar, who sits expectantly by his food bowl. "For me, not you. You get the fancy kibble."

The toaster clicks as I push the lever down. I measure coffee grounds carefully—normally a soothing ritual—but today the rich aroma catches in my throat. I swallow hard, pressing a hand against my abdomen.

"Weird," I mutter.

I love coffee. Live for it. The team nutritionist has lectured me about my four-cup-a-day habit, but I've never given it up. Today, though, the smell makes my insides twist.

The toast pops. I stare at it, suddenly uncertain. I force myself to spread a thin layer of butter, watching it slowly melt into the bread. My stomach lurches.

"Nope," I say, dropping the toast onto a plate. "Not happening."

I push it aside and rest my elbows on the counter, my head sinking into my hands. Oscar abandons his breakfast to press against my legs.

"I'm okay, buddy." I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince him or myself.

Where did I pick up a stomach bug? The wedding food? But that would have taken longer to kick in. I mentally trace back through what I ate Friday. Toast and coffee for breakfast. Lunch at a salad place with the team nutritionist on Friday. Takeout Thai Friday night from my regular place. I guess that could have been it…

The coffee maker beeps. I turn to it like facing an enemy.

I pour half a cup, lifting it cautiously to my lips. One sip. That's all I need to prove I'm fine.

The liquid touches my tongue, and my stomach immediately revolts. I barely make it to the sink before the meager contents of my stomach come up. It's mostly bile, burning my throat.

This isn't like me. I don't get sick. I'm the person who smugly takes vitamin C and goes for runs while colleagues drop like flies during flu season. My immune system is my pride and joy.

I stare out the small window above my sink. A perfect September sky mocks my misery. I should be out there, enjoying my day off, maybe taking Oscar to the dog park or meeting Garrett for brunch.

---