Page 29 of Bar Down, Baby

My body sways, and I immediately open my eyes, pushing through my heels to steady ground myself like Ainsley’s favorite YouTube yogi says. There’s a stray ice cube on the counter and I rub it along my lips and then suck on it.

This is what I’ve become. Jobless, sick, and sucking on freezer-burned ice cubes.

My phone rings from my bedroom and with a deep breath, I start for it, leaving the ice trays on the counter. The hallway feels too long, even though it’s really not, and by the time I get there, my armpits are sweaty, and I’ve missed the call from “Spam Likely.” I hate that slut.

Something falls behind me, sounding like glass on tile, and I turn my head.

Too quick.

My knees fail and I reach out to catch myself, but I don’t.

I’m on the floor. I’m clutching my phone in my left hand, the screen sporting a sharp new crack. But my right hand is beneath me at an odd angle. I roll off it and it pulses with pain, spurring a fresh wave of nausea. I scramble on my knees to the bathroom and only make it just in time. Once it calms down, I check my hand, wincing at the sharp pain.

“Shit,” I say, realizing I’ve probably sprained it.

I lean back against the wall next to the toilet and feel my eyes burn. Not that there are any tears. I’m so dry, it would be like trying to make lemonade from a rock. I try to swallow, but my throat is so dry it’s like sandpaper. Everything hurts or burns or aches and the light streaming into the bathroom from the kitchen is starting to give me a headache.

This is bad. This is beyond a normal bug. Maybe Tansy is right, and it’s something more serious. Unfortunately, Tansy is currently on a plane to Dallas. Or Atlanta. Or somewhere that isn’t here.

I lift my phone and, using my left hand, slowly type a text to my other roomie.

ME:What time do you get off work today?

AINSLEY:Shoot, girl. I’m sorry. I just promised I’d take Martina’s shift this afternoon.

AINSLEY:Are you still not feeling good? You should go to urgent care.

I shut my eyes again. I can’t afford it, but right now, I can’t even peel myself off the floor.

I scroll through my limited contacts and pause on Joaquin’s name. I click on it and then hesitate. Part of me knows that if I asked, he would take me to the doctor. But then Melody would have an opinion, and it would feel awkward. And I can’t keep calling him. I’ve done so well since I moved in with the girls. It feels wrong.

Then I see his name: Derek Carroll. I really don’t want to bother him, but I don’t know what else to do. He did say we weren’t casual. Even if I haven’t seen him since the party last weekend. I would say vomit and urgent care qualify as non-casual. Right?

I click open a screen to text him, but my thumb slips and I accidentally call him.

“Shit,” I mumble, hanging up as quickly as I can. I let out a shaky breath and pull up a text window, starting to text him, when my phone lights up with a phone call from him.

“Hello?” I say, my voice scratchy and rough from disuse.

“Hey there,” he says. I can practically hear the sweet smile in his voice. “I was starting to think you’d lost my number, and I would have to come by with a flimsy excuse—”

And then I vomit. Because I can’t even let him flirt without my stomach betraying me.

“Megan?” His voice comes through the phone as it lays on the floor, sounding as if he’s said it a few times and I haven’t responded.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and flush the toilet. Because what’s the point in even trying to seem like I’ve got my shit together?

“Hey, sorry,” I say, picking it up and putting it on speaker.

“Are you okay, princess?” He sounds concerned and it makes my stomach flutter. Which is really not the right feeling at the moment. I swallow down some bile.

“I…” I start, and then I start to cry. There’s something about the softness in his voice that makes me go soft and weak.

“Are you home?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I whisper, because my voice is suddenly not working.

“Stay where you are, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

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