by Alexa Martin
“It’s hard not to mind you when you’re still standing here, Dad.” I push to my feet, grabbing Maxwell’s arm and tugging him past my cock-blocking dad. “We’re going to play Ping-Pong now.”
I don’t wave to Abby or Paisley or anybody as I stomp to the front door, yanking Maxwell along with me.
Screw Ping-Pong. I’d much rather try my hand at tonsil hockey.
Twenty-one
Death.
I feel like death has come for me. I am going to die all alone in my empty apartment with pictures of strangers still in my frames.
Ping-Pong was—begrudgingly—a really good time. I had a bad attitude at the beginning but once we split into women versus the men and made full-on brackets, my competitive side couldn’t help but be all the way in.
We ordered a disgusting amount of food. I drank drinks with far too much sugar content, and I laughed as the professional athletes got their asses so handed to them that Shawn actually threw a tantrum and left.
When it was all over, I almost gave in and went to my dad’s, but after the earlier events of the night, I didn’t want to deal with his questions.
If only I had the emotional maturity of an actual adult woman, I would’ve dealt with the minor discomfort of discussing my love life with my dad and moved on. Then I wouldn’t be in my apartment, facing death all alone.
I was a little queasy on the drive home, but I figured anybody would be after shoveling the amount of crap I did into my mouth. I’d go home, drink some water, and sleep it off.
Wrong.
I slept for maybe an hour before the churning in my stomach startled me out of my sleep. I rolled out of bed, and even that motion made my stomach hurt so bad, I had to lie with my body half on and half off my bed before I was convinced I wouldn’t decorate my beige carpet with the nachos and chocolate cheesecake from earlier.
I crawled—literally crawled—through my bedroom and into my bathroom.
I didn’t even bother to turn on the lights as my hands and knees dredged along the cold tiles to the bathtub. I turned the knob, hearing the rush of water and keeping my hand under the faucet just until I felt it heat, then I collapsed to the floor, resting my head on the floor mat, thankful that I splurged on the memory foam one.
When the bathwater was high enough, I damn near dove into it, hopeful that warm water would do the trick and help bring some relief.
Wrong again.
Did you know you could get seasick from a bath?
Neither did I.
I tried to ignore the telltale sign of sweat beading on my forehead, blaming it on the water being too warm. I rolled over, letting my cheek rest against the cool, porcelain ledge of the tub, thinking that if I immersed my stomach beneath the water, I’d magically feel better. Instead, it made everything worse. The water gently lapping around me caused my body to float slightly among the ripples. My vision swam, dizziness propelling the nausea when, suddenly, I was jumping out of the tub, racing to the toilet as fast as the vomit raced up my throat.
I just made it and spent what might have been hours emptying the contents of my stomach. Then maybe hours more choking on the taste of bile and retching because there was nothing left to come up. I yanked the decorative towels off the towel bar, using them as makeshift blankets to cover my shivering body, and fell asleep in front of the toilet like I did that one time in college.
Ringing wakes me up.
I don’t know what time it is. All I know is the sun is shining into my bedroom. I try to make a mental note to order new curtains because the ones I have clearly don’t do shit.
I pull myself up using the counter as leverage and as soon as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I want to throw up again.
And I do.
But more from the motion of standing up than my face.
My dad always makes fun of me because I “don’t know how to throw up.” I strain my face. I fight a losing battle and then when it comes, I try to force the contents out. And after I’ve been sick, I’m a splotchy mess because I have, quite literally, burst the blood vessels in my face.
I don’t know what I’m throwing up. Maybe the lining in my stomach? Maybe I’ll throw up my organs and that’s what’s going to kill me. At least I’ll have some cool postmortem special on TLC.
To try and postpone my death for as long as possible, I grab my bathroom trash can and make the trek to my living room. I grab my phone, about to send Paisley a text that I need her to open HERS today, only to see multiple texts from her asking where I am and that she opened. I text her back, hoping I reach her before she sends some poor, unassuming police officer to my apartment of doom for a wellness check.
Stomach flu.
I was going to send more, but even the tapping of the letters and the flashing on my screen cause my nausea to roll back in.
I squeeze my eyes shut—wishing I paid more attention in first Communion classes and remembered any of the prayers they taught me—and wait for the nausea to pass enough that I can grab a glass and some crackers from the kitchen.
Even though my throat is so parched that I’m sure if vomiting up my intestines doesn’t kill me, dehydration will, I still don’t get water. I remember when I was sick as a kid, my mom lying in bed with me, holding a bucket in one hand and a glass of ice in the other. She’d said water was too heavy and would make my stomach hurt worse, so she’d lie with me for hours, giving me a spoonful of ice whenever I asked, running her slender fingers through my hair when she wasn’t spoon-feeding me. It’s one of the few positive memories I have left of her and so I choose not to question it.
I move at a sloth’s pace back to my couch, hoping my slow and even steps will ward off any more bile trying to escape my stomach. I lower myself onto my couch at a speed that challenges the most demanding exercise instructor’s squats, closing my eyes and releasing a moan that holds more pleasure than any one-night stand I’ve ever had.
My phone lights up and chimes beside me.
Paisley: Oh no! Do you need me to bring you anything?
I love that she asked. I’m proud of HERS for so many reasons, but I think number one on that list is creating a community of strong women who support and care about each other. Women get such a bad rap, but there’s nothing more powerful than a group of women. And every day in my bar, I’m surrounded by women who spend their nights laughing with new and old friends and handing out genuine compliments like it’s the most natural thing in the world—which I’m pretty sure it is.
Still, I love Paisley too much to ever expose her to the state of my apartment . . . and my face. My fingers dance over the screen.
Stay away. It’s a straight horror movie over here. Vomit. Everywhere.
The bubbles pop up on my screen immediately.
Paisley: You don’t have to tell me twice. But if you want me to drop soup outside your door, don’t hesitate to ask! Don’t worry about rushing back in, we have it under control. Take care of yourself.
I send back a random string of emojis that make no sense put together, but I know that Paisley will love it. She’s basically a human emoji.
I lean over to grab the remote from my coffee table, and my nonexistent abs groan in protest. I mean, the stomach flu isn’t the most ideal workout routine, but if it causes an ab or two to pop out, I’ll take it. Rainbow to every storm and all that jazz.
I turn on the TV and Amy Poehler’s smiling face greets me. I almost click, but my favorite part of Parks and Rec has turned into watching it with Maxwell. What’s the point of Tom Haverford without hearing Maxwell’s deep chuckle?
Maxwell.
Shit.
We kissed.
It was amazing and long and did I say amazing?
Fuck.
We kissed and now I’m like a scene straight out of The Exorcist. I have to warn him. Nothing says “please kiss me again” like telling a guy you may have g
iven him the stomach flu.
I scroll down to Maxwell’s name.
Hey. Just warning you that I ended up with some wicked stomach bug last night. I hope I didn’t give it to you.
I hit Send and stare at my phone, waiting for the bubbles to pop up, but they never do. Then I remember that it’s Tuesday and Maxwell is with Eloise at Pearson, Withington, and Thomas.
I never even asked what was going on with him and Eloise. They could be dating. I could’ve kissed a guy with a girlfriend. And Eloise. Oh lord. The thought of Eloise’s hands all over Maxwell makes me sick.
Literally.
I grab the trash can and stick my head inside, trying to empty my already empty stomach. By the time I’m finished, I fall back onto my couch, peeking at my TV through tired eyes, and suddenly feel like Amy’s smiling face is now mocking me.
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
I hit the Power button with a little too much force and fall asleep on my couch without even cleaning out my trash can, and discover a new rock bottom.
Twenty-two
The deep bang of thunder wakes me up. There aren’t many thunderstorms this time of the year, but in Colorado, you learn to expect the unexpected.
Sweat is pouring off of me, but my teeth are still somehow chattering. I don’t know whether to cling to my blanket or toss it across the room.
“Brynn!” a deep, familiar voice calls at the same time I realize that it wasn’t thunder, but someone knocking on my door, that woke me up.
Now, pride is not something I possess in spades, but Maxwell seeing me like this is something I’m pretty sure I could go my entire life without experiencing.
“Brynn!” he shouts out again. “If you don’t let me know you’re alive, I’m calling the police . . . or your dad.”
“Hold on.” I try to yell, but my throat is raw from throwing up.
I toss my blanket to the side, but when I look down and see that my white T-shirt is now transparent thanks to sweat, I wrap myself up like a burrito and make my way to the door as fast as my stomach allows.
I crack the door open and peer into the hallway at Maxwell, who is holding plastic and paper bags. “I’m alive,” I croak. “You do not want to come in here.” I cast a quick glance back at my couch and I swear, the vomit-filled trash can is mocking me. “Trust me.”
“I thought you said stomach bug, why does it sound like you have strep?”
“I think it hurts from how much I’ve been throwing up,” I say. “But, with my luck, I probably managed to simultaneously catch strep and the flu.”
“Go lie down,” he demands, pushing the door open and ignoring my warning. “I brought Gatorade, crackers, and soup. I’ll call my doctor, she makes house calls.”
I want to stay and fight him on all of this, but as his foot hits my entryway, I gather all of my strength and run to the couch, grabbing the little trash can and rushing to the bathroom to rinse and empty it. I might not be able to avoid letting him see me, but I can do my damnedest not to let him see that grossness.
Only one problem.
I don’t have any strength left to gather.
The ice I was going to eat is melted in the glass on my coffee table. Plus, on top of throwing up everything from last night, I still haven’t eaten today.
So even though I make it to the bathroom, the room starts to spin around me the second my feet hit the tile. That combined with the odor from my trash can do me in. So instead of Maxwell being free from my trash can, he gets a front row seat to the next show.
Fuck. My. Life.
I fall to the floor—my knees hitting the ground with such force, I know they’ll be black and blue tomorrow—and heave into the toilet. I curse what I said about abs, each wave feels like a round in a ring of getting punched in my stomach. My throat feels as though I drank lighter fluid and swallowed a lit match. The sounds of my retching mix with my sobs as tears stream down my face and I pray for this to be over.
Suddenly, my heavy hair stuck to my neck is gathered to the top of my head and a hand is gently rubbing circles on my back. “You’re all right, Brynn,” Maxwell whispers, his voice the only piece of calm in the shit storm swirling around me. “Get it out, you’re okay.”
At last, the heaving fades and I fall to the side of the toilet, landing without any dignity or grace on the floor.
“Fuck,” Maxwell hisses, and I’m sure if I had the energy to open my eyes, I’d see a face filled with regret that he didn’t heed my advice to get the fuck outta Dodge. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I mumble, my words beginning to slur.
I’m not sure if I fall asleep or pass out, but when my eyes open, the shower is running and Maxwell is lifting me to my feet.
“Take a sip,” he says, and I’m suddenly aware of the straw pressed to my lips.
I part my mouth slightly, which is harder than I imagined considering my mouth is usually one thing I never shut.
I take a small, hesitant sip. As thirsty as I am, I’m even more nervous to throw up again. But when the fruity flavor hits my tongue, I damn near groan in ecstasy. I let go of my death grip on Maxwell’s arm and cling to the glass, gulping down whatever this is.
Then Maxwell pulls it away.
“Hey!” I whine, desperate to have more.
“If you drink it too fast, you’re going to get sick again.” He raises the straw to my mouth, but doesn’t let me hold the glass. “Small, frequent sips.”
“Whatever.” I want to argue, but my stomach is already starting to swirl and groan.
He lets me have a few more sips before he takes the glass and sets it on my bathroom counter. “I called my doctor, she’ll be here in an hour.” He points to the shower, its glass door starting to fog up from the steam. “I thought you might want a shower. I’m going to sit in your room while you’re in there. Leave the bathroom door open, and if you start to feel dizzy or you need me, just yell and I’ll be there.”
I nod, but words don’t come out as something other than bile warms my stomach. Besides my dad, no man has ever gone out of his way for me. Which, to be fair, is partly by my design. It’s not something I’ve ever wanted. But standing in my bathroom, smelling like a zoo exhibit and looking like the zombie apocalypse has begun, Maxwell is still staring at me like I’m a fucking treasure.
I would never ask him for help, but it’s nice to have the offer.
“Is that okay?” he asks, misconstruing my silence for objection. “Of course you can close the door if you want and I can go sit on the couch if that makes you more comfortable.”
“No,” I say adamantly. “You can stay in my room. Thank you.”
He nods, pulling his full lips between his teeth. A shy look that doesn’t seem to belong crosses his perfect face before he turns on his heel and leaves the room.
I do my best to avoid the mirror as I strip out of my disgusting sweat- and vomit-stained clothes. Not only is Maxwell the nicest guy ever for coming to check on me, he’s a fucking saint for getting so close—the stench coming from my body is downright offensive.
I step under the warm stream of water, and all else is forgotten. I scrub my body, wash my hair, and brush my teeth, and by the time I get out, I feel human again. It’s amazing what a good shower can do for a person.
I step into my room, forgetting that Maxwell is there until I see his legs dangling off of my freshly made bed.
“You made my bed?” I don’t even make my bed.
“Oh, yeah.” He scissors up and off of it. “It felt weird just sitting here, I figured I could help out a little bit. I hope you don’t mind that I went through your stuff.”
“Uh . . . no. Not at all.” I grab on to my towel, afraid that despite being sick, I’ll toss it off and jump him. “I actually really appreciate it.”
The corners of his mouth tip up slightly and he ope
ns his mouth to say something but is cut off by his phone’s ringtone cutting through the awkward tension. He grabs his phone off of my bed, glancing at the screen before swiping and putting it to his ear.
“Hello,” he says in the deep, professional voice I heard when he was signing autographs and doing interviews. “Yes, that’s the building. I’ll come down and get you.” He hangs up the phone and tucks it into his back pocket, making me aware for the first time of the jeans he’s wearing and how freaking well they fit him. “That was Dr. Bowen, I’m going to grab her from the parking lot and then we’ll be back up. Are you okay for me to leave?”
“I think I’ll be able to survive five minutes on my own.” Not even the stomach flu can beat back my sarcasm.
“Smart-ass.” He smiles and crosses the small space between us. “But I’m glad to hear you joking a bit, you had me worried.”
Then he leans in and drops a chaste kiss on my cheek and goes to let in the doctor.
I watch him until the front door shuts behind him, my hand absentmindedly moving to my face, the spot where his lips touched me still tingling.
Twenty-three
“So you guys are together now,” Vonnie says, cracking open one of the Gatorades Maxwell dropped off this morning for herself.
“No.” I tuck my feet beneath my butt, thankful that I’m finally able to hold food down, not thankful that the forty-eight hours of vomiting seems to have zapped away any extra cushion my ass had to offer. “We haven’t talked about that at all, he’s just been a really good friend.”
A good friend who still found every opportunity to hold my hand, rub my back, and give me quick kisses whenever he could.
“Girl.” Vonnie aims her renowned side-eye at me. “The man braved your nasty-ass apartment, chanced getting the stomach flu, and took care of you. He’s your man. No man does that for someone they don’t want to be with. Hell, I don’t even help Justin when he’s sick. I only risk my health for my kids.”
