Page 112 of Faking the Pass
“This is nothing,” Presley said. “When we do two-a-days during summer training camp, guys are puking left and right.”
The cold washcloth felt like heaven against my skin. I held it over my face even when I responded.
“I’m not one of the ‘guys.’ I’m—” My protest cut off abruptly. I’d been about to say “your wife.”
Presley chuckled. “I know, I know. You’re alady. A delicate flower who never burps, farts, sweats, or gets sick. Really, Rosie. It doesn’t bother me in the least. Do you feel any better after throwing up?”
I took an internal inventory from my position on the cold tile floor.
Head still spinning, stomach still rocking back and forth. At least it was empty now.
“Not really. I thought seasickness was supposed to stop when you got off the boat.”
Presley helped me to my feet then waited behind me as I brushed my teeth, clutching the edge of the countertop with onehand for balance. I couldn’t meet his eyes in the mirror or even look at myself, I was so embarrassed.
“Usually it does,” he said. “But everybody’s different. Sometimes the after effects can last a few hours—even a few days. Do you tend to get motion sickness on amusement park rides or when you ride in the backseat of a car?”
“It’s been so long since I’ve done either of those, it’s hard to remember. But yeah, I think I did when I was a kid.”
“You may be more affected by it then. It’s an inner ear thing,” he said. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have suggested a fishing trip.”
When he tried to help me walk to the bedroom, I pushed his hands away. “I’m okay. I can walk.”
But contrary to my obstinate words, I reeled off to one side, feeling like I was falling.
Presley’s arms went around me, and then my feet were off the ground, my legs draped over one of his arms, and my woozy head resting against his chest.
“You shouldn’t carry me. Your shoulder,” I protested.
“You’re light as a feather, Starfish,” he said. “And youcan’twalk. You need to go to bed and stay there.”
Instead of taking me to the bed in my own room, he carried me down the hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“My room,” he said. “I’ll need to keep an eye on you tonight. The last thing either of us needs is you falling and getting a concussion.”
I wanted to protest, but honestly, I didn’t have the energy.
All I wanted was to lie downsomewhereand close my eyes, pass out, and gain some blessed relief from this spinning teacup ride that wouldn’t seem to end.
Reaching his room, Presley set me down on the enormous bed.
“I’m going to call the team doctor,” he said. “I think you might have Mal de Debarquement Syndrome. I’ll find out if there’s anything we can do to make you feel better. You just get some rest, and call me if you need to get up for anything.”
His tone was gentle and sweet, and I realized he hadn’t sounded like that since the day we returned from the island, before I’d informed him we would no longer be sharing a bed.
My head was too dizzy to consider what the change meant. I crawled to the pillow and collapsed with a sigh.
My eyes didn’t open again, so I couldn’t say for sure, but it seemed like Presley didn’t leave the room for a long time.
And when I fell into dreams, they were filled with his voice, and his wonderful scent and his touch.
In a world that was spinning like a merry go round, he seemed like the only solid thing to hold onto.
Chapter 27
I Won’t Look
