Page 52 of Capitally Unexpected

I laugh. “You may have a hickey or two, but I don’t think I turned you?—”

“Wait.” She sits up. “No, I think I’m really going to be sick.”

“Fuck.” That one is out loud. I grab the trash can and hand it to her. “Do you want to try to make it to the bathroom?”

She nods, and I notice how pale she is. I got too caught up in worrying about the sunlight and how right she felt against me to pick up on it earlier. Each of us holding one side of the trash can, we get her standing and move the few feet into the bathroom. Never more thankful for tight quarters, we make it to the toilet in time for Michelle to let loose into the bowl.

“Yuck, it’s like it’s week eleven all over again.” She heaves into the toilet once more. Looking around, wanting to be helpful, I pull a washcloth off the shelf and wet it with cold water. I hand it to her, along with some tissue for around her mouth.

She leans against the wall. “Do you mind grabbing me a pillow? We can get a replacement from housekeeping later, but this is going to kill my back sitting on the floor.”

It sounds like we’re in it for the long haul. I rush into the bedroom and grab one of the pillows she had at her hips. The sound of Michelle retching again reaches my ears. I look at the bed and grab the whole damn comforter off. If she’s going to beon the floor in a cruise ship bathroom, it’s going to be the most comfortable floor I can give her.

I lean against the wall as she goes another few rounds. She leans back into the nest I made her and wipes her hand across her head. I rewet the washcloth and hand it to her.

“Thanks. Shit, have you used the bathroom this morning? I think all the liquid that can be expelled from my body has come out my mouth, but ...”

My bodily functions had been entirely forgotten, but now that she mentions it, I really do need to piss.

“Uh, maybe I can run up and use the one in the locker room.” I calculate how long it will take me to get there and back, and if I can risk leaving her for that long.

“Hunter. My man. Your dick has impregnated me and been inside me within the last six hours. I think you can piss with me in the same room. Promise I won’t look.” She turns her head to the side and holds her hand over her eyes.

It’s tricky to maneuver, but I get close enough to the toilet. It takes a second, but things start flowing. “You can’t cover both your eyes and your ears at the same time. You don’t have the hands.” I mutter, the tips of my ears growing warm.

The flush and rush of water from the sink lets her know it’s okay to remove her hand, and she looks at me. Her face betrays her exhaustion, but she tries to give me her best smile, anyway. “All new levels of intimacy reached this weekend.” She holds out her hand for a high five, but instead I grab it and hang on, sliding down the wall to sit next to her. She leans her shoulder against me, and we wait.

A couple hours later, the heaving has slowed way down, but now, I’m worried about rehydrating her. This much vomit is dangerous enough when it’s just you, but with the baby, it’s a lot worse.

“Do you think you can try some water?” I ask. I’d really love to get some food in her too, but one step at a time. She puts on abrave face as I hand her a newly filled glass, and she takes a small sip.

“Take it slow,” I say, holding my breath. She nods, then takes another sip. Then one more. She sets the glass down hard, spilling water on the floor and the comforter as she leans over the toilet again.

“What is wrong with me?” Her eyes fill and spill over. From exhaustion, fear, or plain feeling awful, I’m not sure. I sit down on the wet ground and rub her back.

“The boat does seem to be a bit rockier today,” I say. “The water might have changed. Or maybe it’s something you ate last night?”

“You had the same thing I did, and you’re fine.”

At this point, I’m less concerned about the cause and more worried about what we do now. “I think we might need to go to the infirmary. We need to get some fluids in you.” She doesn’t put up an argument, which is when I decide to call and ask for a wheelchair to get her there.

Less than ten minutes later, Michelle’s on an exam table and the physician’s assistant who helped get us there is preparing an IV. The tight band pinched around my chest for the last few hours loosens a notch or two.

“All right, standard stuff. This happens a lot on the first full day. Any chance you came in contact with spoiled meat or produce, any history of sea sickness, any chance you might be pregnant?”

“Oh, um, yes,” Michelle says. The PA stops in their tracks.

“Which one is that yes for?” It’s clear most of the time the answer is no.

“I’m pregnant,” Michelle says slowly.

The PA looks at me and looks back at Michelle. “You can’t tell?” I ask. I’ve been able to pick out Michelle’s baby bump for weeks now, but I guess if you didn’t know her, because of her shape, you might not know.

“Hey, now. I assume no one’s pregnant until they tell me orhave a baby.” The PA holds up their hands for a second, then gets back to work setting the IV. “How far along are you?”

“Twenty-four weeks,” she says, hissing as the needle goes in.

“Fuck, sorry.” They pause for a second, then connect the line to the port he just put into her hand. “You guys signed the waivers, right?”

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