Page 78 of Mortify

Dylan.

Just his name makes my stomach clench, and not from morning sickness.

It's been four days since the grocery store confrontation.

Four days of silence that feels more ominous than any threat.

He's planning something.

Men like him don't just give up, don't just walk away.

They regroup. They strategize. They wait for the perfect moment to strike.

The thumping from next door reaches a crescendo, followed by mutual groans that signal the end of the morning show.

"Thank God," I breathe. "Maybe now I can?—"

The nausea hits like a freight train.

I'm out of bed and in the small bathroom before Regnor can even sit up, barely making it to the toilet in time.

"Here." He's behind me, pulling my hair back, rubbing gentle circles on my spine. "Just breathe, baby. Let it out."

This is becoming our morning routine.

Wake up, listen to someone else's sex life, puke my guts out while he holds my hair.

So romantic.

"I'm sorry," I gasp between heaves. "This is so gross."

"Stop apologizing." He wets a washcloth, presses it to the back of my neck. "This is what we do. I take care of you when you need it."

When my stomach finally settles, he helps me to my feet, steadying me while I brush my teeth.

"Crackers are on the nightstand," he says. "Ginger tea's in the mini-fridge. Got you some of those preggie pops from the pharmacy too."

I turn to stare at him. "When did you?—"

"Yesterday while you were napping." He shrugs like it's nothing. "Looked up morning sickness remedies online. Figured we'd try everything, see what works."

My throat tightens.

Dylan never would have researched anything.

Would have told me I was being dramatic, that women have been having babies forever without making such a fuss.

Would have accused me of trying to get attention, of making his life harder with my "constant complaining."

"Thank you," I whisper.

"Stop thanking me for basic shit." But he's smiling as he says it. "Come on, back to bed. Try to eat something before round two hits."

I nibble on crackers while he makes tea, the domestic quiet a sharp contrast to our neighbors' earlier activities.

This is nice.

Weird, being in the clubhouse with its peculiar morning sounds and lack of privacy, but nice.

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