Page 91 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
Sebastien runs after me, slower because he’d insisted on carrying all our shopping bags.
“Helene! What’s wrong?”
I brace myself against the brick wall. I’m pretty sure the bicyclist commuters in the intersection are all staring at me, because it’s gotten so quiet; unlike Americans, they’re too polite to gossip about the woman gagging on the sidewalk.
I realize now what the smell was. “Th-that coffee shop…” I gasp. “It reeked of pot.”
Despite my circumstances, Sebastien starts laughing. I mean, full-belly, echoing-through-the-canals kind of laughter. “That was a cannabis dispensary,” he says.
“The sign on the window said Coffee Shop.” I’m still bent over, but the dry heaving is receding.
“That’s what they call dispensaries here. A place that serves coffee is calledkoffiehuis.”
“That’s…confusing.”
“I know.” He rubs my back.
I take a few deep breaths. The nausea subsides, and I unfold myself slowly, although I still lean against the bricks for support. When I finally feel like myself again, I say, “I’ve never had a problem with pot before. In grad school, the people who lived below us smoked all the time.”
“Dutch cannabis is stronger than American,” Sebastien says.
“Maybe that’s it,” I say. But I still think it’s weird that it affected me so much.
We walk even slower the rest of the way back to the houseboat. The fresh air does wonders, and I’m as good as new by the time we arrive.
That is, until we step foot onto the boat. With the wavesmoving us up and down, nausea lurches through me again. I run to the railing and throw up into the canal.
Sebastien drops everything and rushes to me.
“We should get you to a doctor.”
“No, I’m fine,” I say, wiping vomit from my chin.
“I’m worried.” The gray storm clouds return over his brow, and I realize Sebastien’s not just concerned that I have a stomach bug; he’s afraid this is the curse, that I’m about to die.
But I’m not. I know it. I feel so alive here in Europe with him. I’veneverbeen more alive than this.
“Shh,” I say, trying to calm him down. “This isn’t the curse. I’ll be okay. It’s probably just the aftereffects of the pot.”
“You only breathed it for a millisecond.”
“I promise you. This’ll pass soon.”
Still, I sink down onto the deck, where I can pull my knees tightly into my chest.
Sebastien rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, then starts pacing. “It’s my fault. I’ve worked on a boat for so long with crews who all have their sea legs, I just assumed—”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I just need a few minutes. But please stop pacing, because it’s making the boat rock even more.”
“Helene…”
To reassure him, I give him my brightest smile, like I’mnotfighting the urge to throw up again. “Just sit with me. I swear, I’ll be fine.”
Sebastien lowers himself to the deck and puts an arm around me protectively, as if he can keep me safe by holding me close. Just the two of us, forever and ever.
My stomach heaves again.
Just the two of us, forever and ever,I repeat to myself like a mantra to convince myself I’m going to be okay.
