Page 25 of Christmas in Watch Hill
It didn’t take The Sleigh Bells long to set up their five-piece set. As we watched, we ordered a fresh round of food—a pizza, a beer for me, and some Cajun popcorn. I had to hold myself back in the sake of being polite.
As the band did their final soundcheck, a slow rumble of anticipation floated through the now full bar. People were ready for this eclectic mix of carols and rock; I had to admit I was, too. Then Molly insisted Ian get a closer look at the band by sitting in the chair next to me.
“All right.” Ian took the empty seat a few seconds before The Sleigh Bells began a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells” mixed with a classic 1980s hairband song I couldn’t quite place. “This better be good. It’s hard to make a combination like this work.”
“They started the band as a joke a couple of years ago. They were supposed to play at the Watch Hill tree lighting ceremony, and the carolers who were also hired all got sick with the flu at the last minute. So, they stepped in for an impromptu set of holiday songs.” I nodded at the band, now in full swing with a tambourine, backup singers, and an elf going crazy on the drums. “And now we have this mess.”
“I kind of like it.” Ian moved to the music, tapping his feet. “They’re going for a whole schtick here, and it works.”
“Just as long as they don’t start singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”.” I wrinkled my nose. “That one gets me. It’s too sad.”
“Agreed. I never thought that one was good. Too much downbeat.”
Ian swayed some more and I noticed how the low light of the bar reflected in his bright eyes. If he lived in Watch Hill or even greater Cincinnati, I’d probably have a huge crush on him. But he didn’t. He lived ten hours away in a city full of driven overachievers. I needed to push whatever budding feelings I had for him aside.
Immediately. Long distance didn’t interest me at all.
We settled in and enjoyed about fifteen minutes of the set before Ian suggested a round of limoncello at the end of “Little Drummer Boy”. Molly didn’t hesitate to agree, and soon the waitress placed a trio of small glasses in front of us. Ian lifted his.
“To the end of the year, and some interesting music.”
“To the end of the year,” Molly and I repeated before we clinked our drinks with his.
I took a big sip of the limoncello, letting the sugary liquor rush into my mouth despite knowing the beverage deserved to be sipped. I couldn’t resist.
And then it hit me.
A wave of nausea rushed over my body as my stomach lurched and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead.I’m going to throw up.“Excuse me,” I said, the limoncello turning metallic and almost tasteless in my mouth. “I’ll be right back.”
I rushed through the dining room and into the women’s bathroom. I barely made it to the toilet before I vomited up all that I had just eaten, dry heaving by the end. As a kid, throwing up terrified me; I always had a vision that I’d end up losing my insides from the force of it. It felt gross and uncomfortable, and I hated it.
This time was no different.
A knock came at the stall door. “Are you okay?” a woman I didn’t know asked.
“Yeah, I will be,” I croaked, my throat burning as tears sprang into my eyes. “I just need a minute.”
The woman asked once more and I insisted that I was okay, even though I felt anything but. Once alone, I braced my hand on the stall wall and willed myself to feel better. I didn’t. A few deep breaths didn’t help. Neither did some quick mediation, the kind I’d learned in college when I had trouble coping with stress. No matter what I tried, I still felt like I was going to puke up my guts.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom about fifteen minutes later, I staggered toward the table, the remix of “O Tannenbaum” being sung by The Sleigh Bells pounding in my ears.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” I managed as Ian sprang to his feet, almost knocking his chair to the floor as he did.
“You look awful,” he said. “You’re as pale as snow.”
“I’m just . . .” As I looked at him, and then Molly, my vision blurred. “I need to go home. I think I might have a stomach bug.”
“You look terrible.” Molly also stood from her chair. “I don’t think you should drive.”
“No,” Ian agreed. “You shouldn’t.” He glanced at his cousin. “I can take her home, and then come back here.”
“What about my car?”
“You can get it tomorrow.” Ian snapped his fingers. “How about this—I’ll drive you home in your car and then call for a ride back here. What do you think, Molly?”
“That’s fine with me.” Her eyes were wide, and she remained focused on me. “The band will be playing for a while, and she doesn’t live far.”
“Good.” Ian sounded more resolved, as if the decision had already been made. “So, it will take me, what, less than twenty minutes? Perfect.” He turned to me. “I want to make sure you’re okay, and that you get home safely.”
