Page 134 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
She tucks her feet under my thigh and leans into me, her head on my shoulder. She starts to doze off like that, curled into me while the TV flickers and the sun dips behind the trees. I don’t move.
If what she needs is someone steady and solid to lean on, then I’ll be that for her.
Over and over again.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
AVA
Ilower myself into the kitchen chair and immediately regret it. My body feels like it’s made of wet sand: heavy, slow, uncooperative. I blink at my laptop screen, trying to force focus, but the words blur before I can finish a sentence.
It’s been two days since the gala. Two days since I stood onstage in heels and full makeup and somehow pulled off a night that raised a quarter of a million dollars. I thought that once the pressure lifted, I’d feel normal again.
But if anything, I feel worse.
The nausea that used to creep in occasionally now lingers, coiled low in my stomach like it’s taken up permanent residence. I’ve barely had an appetite all week, and even the smell of myusual tea this morning made me gag. My limbs ache like I ran a marathon in my sleep, and I’ve been crying at random commercials for reasons I can’t explain.
Stress. Adrenaline crash. It’s probably just the aftermath of pushing myself too hard for too long.
Still, something nags at the edge of my mind. A whisper I can’t quite catch.
I press my fingers to my temples, willing the tension away.
“I’m fine,” I mutter aloud, as if saying it will make it true.
But even as I reach for my water bottle, the buttery smell of the twins’ morning waffles hangs heavy in the air, and my stomach flips so hard I have to close my eyes.
I glance at the clock. Jenna texted earlier, promising to swing by with “comfort carbs and some well-deserved decompression.” As much as I want to hide, I’m relieved she’ll be here soon.
When the doorbell rings, the tension in my chest loosens, just a little.
A little while later, we’re curled up on the couch in the living room. The twins are at school, Miss Taylor is out running errands, and Jackson’s at the rink for a light practice and treatment session before Game 1 of the Finals in two days.
I’m in leggings and a hoodie, wrapped in a throw blanket like someone twice my age. Jenna’s brought takeout and a bag of miniature lemon muffins, declaring we both deserved a proper post-gala debrief.
She’s halfway through a story about a board member texting her at midnight with a typo correction when she pauses mid-sentence and narrows her eyes at me.
“Okay, seriously. You still look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Thanks,” I say weakly, sinking deeper into the cushions.
“I’m not kidding, Ava. You look pale, and you haven’t touched your food. You’ve been dragging for a while now.”
“I know,” I sigh. “I thought I’d bounce back after the gala. But I’ve just been so tired. And queasy. And emotional.”
“Have you taken anything? Vitamins? Ibuprofen?”
I shake my head. “No fever. I just feel… off. Probably an adrenaline crash. I’ve barely slept the last few weeks.”
Jenna tilts her head. “Okay. But nausea? Crying at everything? Your sense of smell is suddenly dialed up to a hundred…”
She trails off.
I blink at her. “What?”
She stares at me like it’s obvious. “Ava.”
“What?” I repeat, sitting up slightly.
