Page 85 of Leave Before I Love You
A laugh jumps from my lungs. “He’s your husband, Juni.”
“And you’re my best friend,” she retorts like her argument holds weight.
“Yeah, no. I have boundaries.”
June stares at me like boundaries isn’t even a word. Immediately, my mind is reeling over the consequences of sharing my phone location with June. Surely she’d get real damn suspicious if she started to see me at Henry’s apartment every single night of the week.
Luckily, the server arrives at our table, setting down our plates and distracting my stalker best friend from her insane request.
June’s cheeseburger looks juicy and perfectly messy, while my chicken Caesar salad is topped with crisp romaine and grilled chicken. We’re actively eating when my phone buzzes again, but I quickly glance at the screen—it’s only Ethel—and place it back on the table to avoid June’s prying eyes. Goodness knows, if she got ahold of the messages between Henry and me, she’d reach another level of hormonal.
Instantly, guilt sets up shop in my stomach. The mere idea of keeping something like this from my best friend is…hard. I don’t like keeping things from June, and if I’m honest with myself, it’s bordering on hypocritical, considering how upset I got with her when I found out she was in a relationship with my brother.
“June…” I say, my voice quieter than normal as I stare down at my chicken Caesar salad.
“Yeah?” she asks around a mouthful of burger.
My stomach churns as I try to find the right words to express everything I’m feeling, everything I’ve been up to, and all the questions I have about the future. She’s my best friend, and her input is invaluable in everything happy and sad and in between, and keeping the news of Henry from her is only hurting us both.
But God. It’s big.
And juicy.
And so, so uncharted in the territory department.
Not to mention, her hormones are a wreck, and I don’t want to be responsible for a pregnant woman’s public breakdown.
I take another deep breath to ready myself, but instead of steadying, my stomach pitches, the smell of Caesar dressing and chicken hitting me straight in the face in a way I don’t expect.
A wave of nausea crashes over me, and I swallow hard, reaching for my water.
June pauses mid-bite of her cheeseburger, her eyes narrowing as she watches me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. But when I take a bite of my salad, the nausea intensifies, and before I know it, I’m bolting for the bathroom, my feet scrambling on the black-and-white diamond tile the whole way.
When an older woman in an electric-blue sweater gets in the way of the bathroom door just as my vomit threatens, I have to shove her out of the way with way less gentleness than both she and I would like.
I want to apologize, but if I open my mouth, even for a single word, I’m going to spray chunks.
Shoving through the door and screeching into a stall, I lean over the toilet bowl and let it all go in ugly, retching waves.
When it’s over, I lean against the wall of the stall, catching my breath. The nausea is gone, replaced by a weird sense of relief, but the disgust is alive and well.
Ugh.I hate throwing up so much, and thelastthing I need right now is a stomach virus while I’m trying to gain back a little bit of the weight the island took.
Normally, I’d take life’s blessings for what they are on the diet front—like the time I got a stomach virus two weeks before senior prom and my body ended up looking banging in my dress—but of all the times I’ve needed it, this isn’t one of them.
I take a quick glance at myself in the mirror, thankful I didn’t manage to get particles of vomit on my new short-sleeve knit Chloé sweater I bought the other day at Saks when I was shopping for Blanche and Darla. After a quick fluff of my hair, I wash my hands and head back out into the diner.
When I return to the table, June looks concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just had to puke. But I’m feeling better now.”
“Youpuked?” Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, Avery.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Holy hell,” June mutters through a soft laugh. “Maybe my pregnancy hormones really are getting to you…” She pauses, but then her face morphs from carefree and smiling to eyes narrowed and analyzing my face. “Wait…you don’t think you’re—” she drops her voice “—pregnant, do you?”
