Page 33 of Mountain Daddy

I bolt upright. Slap a hand over my mouth. Fuck. Get to the bathroom NOW! Or you might hurl all over the bed.

I run. My knees barely hit the floor before last night’s sketchy Chinese food makes a violent exit.

When the retching finally stops, I slump against the cold tile — sweating, aching.

Food poisoning. Has to be. That kung pao chickendidtaste a little off.

Except…

This is day three.

Three mornings in a row of this same stomach-flipping hell.

Yesterday. The day before that.

I drag myself up, splash cold water on my face. I look pale and clammy. Sick. Like something chewed me up and spat me out.

“Get it together, Lilly,” I mutter. “You've got bills to pay.”

I stumble through my morning routine—shower, clothes, autopilot.

But the second the eggs cook, the smell slams into me like a punch to the gut.

I grip the kitchen counter hard, breathing through my nose, swallowing against the rising wave.

One more whiff and I’m gonna lose it all over again.

This nausea?

It’s not normal.

It’s not food poisoning.

It’ssomething else.

That's when it hits me.

The thought crashes over me like ice water, freezing me mid-motion.

When was my last period?

I turn off the stove and start counting backward. Three weeks ago? Four?

No. No, no, no.

Panic claws its way up my throat. I grab my phone, open my period tracking app.

Six weeks.

Six.

Fucking.

Weeks.

Six weeks since I watched him beat a man bloody in an alley. Since I let him take me in my bed—raw, reckless, no condom in sight.

My legs give out. I sink onto the floor.

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