Page 57 of Embers in Our Past

“Well, this version of you that I see in front of me is quite exceptional. And you’re not giving yourself enough credit. You’re relocating to be there for your mom. That’s pretty amazing,” I tell him.

He seems uncomfortable with the compliments about him, so I decide to deviate the conversation in another direction.

“How are things with you and Rios? Things get any better?”

“I think so? I mean, I’d say, once I told him about my mom, yes. Sadly, it took something so severe to get him to snap out of it, but yes, he’s acting like things are better now. But I think it also has to do with the fact that Baylee has a new boyfriend. They met after she went back to school after the holidays. It seems serious.” He shrugs, and I notice how hurt he seems with the revelation.

“How does it make you feel?” I ask him, hoping he will give me an honest answer.

“I want to say I wish things could be different, but now that my mom is sick, I can’t really give her the attention she deserves. Plus, I value my friendship with Rios too much. He’s my friend, and he’s been super helpful with my mom’s diagnosis. Right now, I’m still not back in the city full-time, so he’s been visiting her and making sure she’s cared for while I can’t be there, which means a lot.” I get how that could be hard on his emotions.

“That makes sense.” I have no idea how you balance that, and he’s in a tough spot.

“Don’t get me wrong. I know I didn’t imagine things with Baylee, but at the same time, the timing and circumstances weren’t right, so here we are.” It seems like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince me.

Right then, Amanda shows up with our food, and I can’t help how hungry I am all of a sudden. I make grabby hands once everything is deposited on the table.

“Careful, Abs, I think you’re drooling,” Malloy comments, and he’s back to his cheerful self and gone is the seriousness from earlier.

“You shush and get used to it. It’s only going to get worse as I get bigger,” I say as I grab some salad with my fork in one hand and some of the fries with the other. I think I’m mastering this multitasking thing.

“I promise you aren’t alone in this,” I say while chewing, trying not to show him my food and be inconsiderate while I scarf it down.

I’m chewing my food for a few minutes in silence until I look up and see Malloy watching me with a look of disgust on his face.

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

“How are you taking the fries, dipping them in tortilla soup, then adding a forkful of the salad?”

“It’s perfection. Want to try it?” I get everything on a forkful and shove it toward him for a big bite.

“I’m good, thanks.” He moves his mouth away, nose up in the air.

“Suit yourself,” I say with a mouthful and smile in contentment. I have never been this happy with food before. I swear this is the best meal I’ve ever had.

That meal was the worst possible idea ever.

Why would anyone mix chicken Caesar salad, tortilla soup, and French fries? As the meal is coming back up, the acidity is just an added bonus, and it’s not fun.

I think this is what death feels like. The baby is revolting and probably hates me for my meal choice. At first, I thought it was just possibly a food I needed to avoid, but it’s been over twelve hours that I can’t keep anything down.

I finally got the strength to call my doctor, and the obstetrician on call told me to go to the hospital to get some IV hydration. It’s the middle of the night, and I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. I checked my shared calendar that I have with Clay, and it shows he’s working tonight, so I’ll just shoot him a quick text and let him know I am going to get myself checked out because dehydration isn’t good for the baby.

I don’t feel any cramping, but I’m incredibly lethargic after so many hours of being unable to keep anything down. I’ve tried to suck on ice cubes, but even those are hard to keep in my system. The minute I start to suck on those or even try a few sips of water, I bring them right back up. I must have food poisoning.

I find a plastic bag I can stuff in my purse to take along in the Uber with me, then send a quick text off to Clay, explaining the vomiting hasn’t subsided. When he started his shift, he knew I was under the weather, but I wasn’t this bad. I have no clue if he has access to his phone. It all depends if he’s out on a call. I try to make it sound less serious to keep him from freaking out.

Hey. I need to get checked out. I can’t keep any food down, and the doctor thinks I need fluids. I might have food poisoning. I don’t want you to worry. Hope the shift is going well. I’ll keep you updated.

Now that Clay is informed, I grab my things and order my Uber. I get downstairs, and at this late hour, my ride gets here pretty quickly. I get in, and the way this guy keeps slamming on the brakes, I feel like whatever bile I have accumulated so far is going to make an appearance, so I plead with him to take it easy.

“Hey, any chance you can simmer down on the brake,” I say as kindly as I can manage.

“You don’t look so good,” he says, glancing back at me through the rearview mirror. Then he sees me pulling things out of my bag in search of the one I hid in case I felt ill on the way to the hospital. It’s dark back here, so I’m not able to find it.

He turns to address me this time. “Do not throw up in my car! No way!”

He rolls the windows down in an attempt, I assume, to keep me from throwing up, and all it does is make me exceptionally cold in the process.

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