Page 80 of Free to Run
God, I wish my mother was alive to have had a chance to have heard it.
I make my way down the hall to the conference room and slam the door as I enter it.
33
Alison
It’s been two months since Keene and I…well, since Keene and me. I’m petrified to put a label on it, truth be told. We just are.
He’s moved out of Cassidy’s house completely, and his clothes are now hanging up next to mine in my closet. Looking at all the casual wear, I asked him one morning where all of his suits were. He got an uncomfortable look on his face when he responded, “Back at my place in Manhattan.”
He never gave any indication he would have to go back and get them, nor did I ask if he wanted to. It’s still early days, and it’s still new. For right now, Keene is with me. That’s all I can ask for.
That, and to get rid of this damn bug. God, I feel like utter crap, and if Keene tries to pour any more chicken soup down my throat, I’m going to find a live chicken and shove it down his to make up for all the mutilated ones he’s forced me to consume over the last few days.
I don’t know how much longer I can tolerate feeling like this.
Chuckling at that thought, I realize I must be feeling better. My mother always used to tell me I’d always get whiny at the end of whatever illness I had as a kid. As an adult, I typically curl into a ball and growl at anyone who tries to take care of me.
Now Keene’s here, and I pretty much don’t have any choice in the matter. He refused to let me kick him out of our room for fear of getting him ill. Whenever he’d catch me retching over the toilet, he’d hold my hair back from my face before wiping it down with a cool washcloth. And last night, when I couldn’t take the scent of myself anymore, he drew a bath for both of us and held me while I got clean in the warm water.
I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed seeing this side of him—this nurturing part of him. I’ve spent too much time throwing up over the last few days to think about it much. It’s another piece of the puzzle of Keene Marshall that fits so beautifully into place. Maybe one day, I’ll finally see the whole picture.
I bet it’s going to be devastating.
I’m still weak, but I’m finally up to heading downstairs. I need a change of scenery other than the four walls of my bedroom or my bathroom. Besides, I need to find my purse to locate my pill packet. I have to figure out when my cycle is supposed to start, so when I feel better, Keene and I can talk about the need for condoms until I can get back on my cycle. Sighing regrettably, I know I’m going to miss the wonders of feeling him skin on skin, when I pause.
Wait, when was my last cycle?
I count backward before another bout of nausea hits. At the sluggish speed I’m moving, I barely make it to the downstairs powder room. My head hanging over the bowl, I start counting again.
No. It’s not possible. I didn’t miss a single pill.
Finishing, I wipe my mouth and flush, waiting for more nausea to rip through me. My heartbeat is thundering through my chest. Pushing myself to my feet, I grab on to the vanity with weak hands and look at my reflection in the mirror. Don’t panic before you know, Alison. You have a bug, and it’s likely throwing everything off.
Including your brain.
Passing through the kitchen, I grab my purse and a bottle of water. Suddenly, my room, our room, which I was so eager to escape from a few minutes ago, offers a necessary haven.
It’s also where I keep my pregnancy tests.
Dragging myself back up the stairs, I pause partway up and lean against the rail. What am I going to do? What will the family say?
What will Keene say?
Whoa, Ali. First things first. Take the test.
I climb the rest of the way up the stairs and go to the linen closet in the hall. Reaching blindly in the back, I grab one of the pregnancy tests I keep back there. Scanning the expiration date, I let out a sigh. It’s still good.
I trudge through my bedroom and into the bathroom, holding the test in one hand and my purse in the other. Sitting on the toilet, I unwrap the test. Right now, I’m grateful I went for the easy ones. A plus sign if it’s positive; a minus sign if it’s negative.
Uncertain of how long Keene will be gone picking up groceries, I quickly pee on the stick. Placing it on some tissue, I wash my hands, grab up the trash, stuff it into the original box and wait.
I wonder if Keene’s going to laugh with me later when I tell him about this.
I glance down at the test.
The longest three minutes of my life just turned into a responsibility lasting at least eighteen years.
