Page 38 of Doctor's Baby: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

Chapter Eighteen

Eve

If I wasn’t a hot mess before, I definitely am now.

I’m exhausted. My whole body is dead weight. My shins are killing me. The muscles in my lower back ache like nobody’s business. I want to shout at everyone and everything that makes so much as a peep of sound.

My heart hurts.

I wake up earlier than usual, the gurgling in my stomach rising into my chest and lodging itself in my throat. I have to throw the covers off and make a mad dash to the bathroom. Luckily, I make it in time to spill my guts into the toilet.

A vile acidity fills my mouth, coats my tongue. I stare in dismay at the murky toilet water, both fascinated and disgusted by the bits and pieces of last night’s dinner floating there. A-Ma made pork soup dumplings for dinner last night. Maybe the pork was undercooked? It seems kind of impossible given how great a cook A-Ma is, but I really don’t have any other explanation.

Two soft knocks sound at the bathroom door.

“What wrong?” A-Ma asks.

“It’s nothing,” I lie. “Go back to bed.”

“You still sick? I call work and stay home to take care of you.”

“No, A-Ma. Don’t do that. I’m fine.” As I speak, I choke at the gag reflex that wants me to lurch the remainder of my stomach contents into the toilet bowl. “Dinner’s just not sitting well with me.”

“Impossible,” she argues. “I make all the time. Easy family recipe.”

I snatch a bit of toilet paper from its roll and wipe my mouth. The rumbling in my tummy’s subsided, but I feel totally and horribly gross. I clean up my mess in the bathroom and open the door, squeezing past A-Ma as she tries to feel my forehead.

“Aiyah, you so warm,” she cries. “Go to bed. I bring tea.”

“I don’t need tea.”

“A-Ma knows best. Go lie down, go lie down.”

She all but follows me back to my bedroom, keeping a watchful eye on me.

I don’t get in bed like she asks. Instead, I get changed into some dance clothes and stuff my duffle bag full of things I’ll need for the day.

“What you doing?”

“I’m going to class.”

“No, you stay. If sick, you’re sick.”

I want to shout at A-Ma to leave me alone. I’m just not in the mood. But I would never dare to raise my voice at my mother. Instead, I place my hands on her shoulders and do my best to fake a smile.

“I’m totally fine. I promise. I’ve already taken the last three days off. I can’t afford to miss any more practice.”

A-Ma frowns as she reaches up to pat me on the cheek. “You work too hard.”

“Not hard enough, A-Ma. I’m not perfect yet.”

“You perfect to me.”

I wrap my arms around her small frame and hug her. She pats me slowly on the back.

“Something bothering you,” she mumbles. “You know you can talk to me, ah?”

“Yes, I know. I’m just stressed out about auditions.”

A-Ma pulls away and pinches my cheeks. “Stress, stress go away.”

I manage a gentle giggle. Leave it to my angel of a mother to make me feel better.

“Thanks, A-Ma. I needed that.”

Everything sucks.

My form’s sloppy. I can’t seem to keep up with the music. Whispering dancers and their judgmental looks on the sidelines distract me to no end.

Every jump, every turn, every position hurts like hell. My joints creak, my hips pop, I can barely turn my neck. I can’t figure out why I’m in such poor shape.

It’s because you took time off.

This is what you get, slacker.

Suck it up and arch your feet!

I’m dizzy, my chest is heavy, and my stomach still hasn’t settled from earlier this morning. Never in my life have I ever thought I don’t want to dance.

But today, I really don’t want to dance.

My heart’s just not in it. Neither is my mind.

I’m preoccupied with the worry that Nate may try to visit. He’s been blowing my phone up nonstop ever since the confrontation with his mother. He texts me at all hours of the day, calls me continuously to leave messages in my voicemail. My inbox is officially so full that it can’t accept any more messages.

I miss him. After all is said and done, I really, truly miss him.

I miss the sound of his voice. I miss the smell of his cologne. I miss the heat of his hands, the crooked way he smiles, the sensation of my fingers running through his hair.

But he didn’t stick up for me.

Mrs. Winthrop was the one who attacked me, but I was the one who he sent away.

Jerk.

I haven’t been able to get a good night’s sleep ever since. My mind’s been mulling over the whole situation over and over again, analyzing every possible detail. Am I the one in the wrong? Did I somehow overstep?

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