Page 65 of Inviting Trouble
She retched. He winced. That sounded really bad.
“Go away. I’m sick,” she said in a weak voice.
He stood there for a minute, unsure how to help her. “You still hungover?”
“It’s much worse than that. I think I have food poisoning. Please go away.”
“Okay, call me if you need anything.”
He went downstairs and put the TV on while he ate at the coffee table, half of him still listening for signs of life upstairs. He checked on her a few times. Still in the bathroom. By the time it was late enough for bed, he was alarmed to find she hadn’t left the bathroom. “Mad?”
She moaned.
“Do you need a doctor?”
“No.”
“Have you had anything to eat or drink today?”
“I can’t.”
He leaned against the door, speaking through it. “You want some help getting to bed?”
“I’m never leaving this toilet.”
“I’ll get you some Gatorade or soda or something. You must be dehydrated by now.”
No reply.
He bolted downstairs, grabbed her car keys, and drove to the store. He made it back twenty minutes later, poured her a glass of ginger ale and a glass of Gatorade and put them both on her nightstand.
He returned to the bathroom door. “Let me help you to bed. You need to at least sip a drink. You’ve been in there all day.”
The door sprang open suddenly. Her hair was a tangled mess in a lopsided messy bun. Her eyes had smeared mascara under them. She was pale and shaky, wearing only a T-shirt and her purple boy shorts panties. She was basically a mess. Every part of his being reached out to her in that moment, wanting to take care of her.
He reached for her, guided her back to her room, and it hit him that maybe his desire to take care of her meant that he could be a family man. Maybe he wasn’t damaged beyond hope. Wasn’t that what her dad did? Took care of all of them?
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m hideous.”
“You’re just sick,” he countered.
She continued in silence and collapsed on the bed. He knew she must be in really bad shape if she didn’t even have a snarky comeback.
He tucked the pillow under her head better. “I’m going to get you another pillow so you can sit up and drink.” He headed to the door.
“Get a trash can too,” she called. “Oh God.” She raced past him and back to the bathroom.
It was a long night. Her petite body racked with the food poisoning. She moaned and retched and raced to the bathroom for hours.
By dawn, she had nothing left in her. Just dry heaves. He sat in a chair next to her bed, keeping vigil, putting a cool washcloth to her forehead, helping her sip flat soda.
She finally fell into an exhausted sleep. He slept in the chair by her side, one hand covering hers.
~ ~ ~
Mad woke the next morning feeling drained but relieved not to be nauseous anymore. It had to be the fried chicken dinner she’d snarfed before the party. Maybe the coleslaw; it had tasted sort of sour. She hadn’t had anything but tortilla chips at Garner’s. Josh was right. That junk-food stuff was poison. Her stomach muscles hurt, her throat burned, and her tongue felt fuzzy. So gross.
She slowly turned her head to see Park asleep in a chair next to her bed. He’d seen everything. Seen her at her worst. After all the effort she’d made to look sexy for him. Now he’d never see her as anything but that disgusting barfing girl.
