So it helps. Sue me. A girl can pretend.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, cutting off whatever Day was about to say, and I reach for it. Tyler’s name flashes on the screen, stopping my heart.
I’ll look after you ‘til Hell freezes over. You’re mine.
I’m beginning to get very acquainted with the inside of toilets.
I wonder how long it’ll take for it to get old. I mean, how many times can one person vomit before they get sick of it? No pun intended, of course…
I spend an hour in the bathroom vomiting up a big, fat fucking nothing. That’s right. My throat burns and my mouth tastes like sterility for no reason whatsoever.
Thank you, baby Stone. I appreciate it.
I sit on the floor and lean against the bath while I wait for the next wave of nausea to pass. When it does, I crawl into the bedroom, grab my glass from the nightstand, then crawl back to the bathroom to fill it. No sudden movements. All easy, flowing moves.
I sit back down and sip very slowly from the glass. It’s more to wet my lips and mouth than for a drink—I feel as though I’ve been swirling sand around my mouth for the past few hours.
The glass smashes as I drop it and grab the toilet. Whatever water I just drank comes back up violently and I punch the toilet seat. Fucking hell. I pull the flush and take a deep breath. My stomach hurts ridiculously. It’s cramping relentlessly, sending hot flushes through me.
And I’m sitting next to a pile of smashed glass.
Fantastic. Fanmotherfuckingtastic.
I have no idea how long it take for the nauseated feeling to go. All I know is that, by the time it does, my ass is numb and my back hurts from leaning against the bathtub.
I tug myself up using the side of the tub for leverage and walk out of the bathroom on shaky legs. The next person to talk about that pregnant woman glow is getting punched.
I change from my pajamas and pull a dress over my head. A series of loud knocks echo through the hotel room, and I walk to the door, resisting the urge to check my phone.
I know there won’t be anything there. What can we really say to each other? ‘I’m sorry I broke your heart’? ‘I’m sorry I’m so effed up I can’t have a relationship with you although I’m having your baby’?
‘I’m sorry I expect you to wait for me when I don’t know what I’m asking for?’
“Are you ready to go down to the spa?” Day asks. “Ack. Or maybe a hospital?”
I give her my best ‘shut the hell up’ look and grab my phone and room key. “Spa. It’s just morning sickness. It’ll ease up soon.”
Said no sick, knowledgeable pregnant woman ever.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Now let’s go before you turn into the mom and me the baby.” I slam the door behind me and follow her into the elevator.
Tessa darts into it just before the doors shut with a chirpy, “Morning!” and a rosy smile I’d love to wipe off.
Wow. Hello, hormones.
Seriously, these things come out of nowhere. Give a girl a positive pregnancy test and she’s suddenly the symptom page of that flippin’ booklet they give out.
I follow them into the spa, where we’re greeted it a smile and handed robes. Fluffy, fluffy robes. I sigh as we’re shown into private rooms to change into them. Oh, soft, fluffy robe.
Drinks, breakfast orders, then questions about massages.
“Oh, wait. Do you have a masseuse trained to do pregnancy massages?” Dayton interrupts, pointing at me. “Liv is pregnant.”
The girl in front of us widens her eyes. “Oh, of course, but she won’t be in until this afternoon.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll do something else.”
“We can rearrange the plan to accommodate that for you, Miss Black,” the girl says, ignoring me completely. “It’s not a problem.”
“That would be great. Thank you.” Day turns to me. “See? Not a problem. Now let’s get our feet done.”
The girl leads us over to the pedicure area and I hold in my sigh. And there I was, hoping I’d get another hour in bed.
Ice cream. Chocolate sauce. Strawberries. Banana. Sprinkles. And a whole lot of other so-bad-it’s-good-for-you crap.
I haven’t vomited for four and a half hours, which, in my meager opinion, gives me free range to devour this calorie-laden beauty in front of me.
And if it comes back up later, then at least I got to enjoy it.
I fill my mouth full of the goodness and close my eyes. I hum low, licking the sauce off the spoon appreciatively.
Dayton laughs. “Do you need a room, Liv?”
I half-groan, half-moan, and look at her. “You have no idea how good this tastes after two days of plain pasta and toast!”
And heartbreak. And crying. And despondent staring into space.
Oh, shit. Someone build me a bridge so I can get over it already.
This is Day’s weekend. It’s about her. And my ice cream. Oh, crap. The ice cream.
“Seriously. If there were such a thing as snogging ice cream, you’d be doing that right now,” Tessa muses. “It’s both intriguing and horrifying at the same time.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Horrifying was you getting the wax earlier. No, I take it back. Your scream while getting the wax earlier was horrifying.”
“So I’m a Brazilian virgin. Shoot me.”
“How did you…you know.” Day waves her hand.
“Seriously. The ex-call girl can’t say ‘shave your pubic hair’?” I raise my eyebrows.
She shoots me a look. “Fine. Tessa, tell me. How did you keep your vajayjay pretty before today?”
I grin when Tessa spits out her drink.
“I shaved,” she answers.
“Oh, effort.” I muse. “Not to mention time consuming. Plus, those little cuts? Why are they always on the inside?”
We all contemplate this for a moment. No, seriously. We do.
“Well, it doesn’t hurt as much as waxing,” she reasons. “So I guess it’s worth it.”
“Ahh,” Day interrupts, waving her own spoon around. “But you won’t have to get it done again for around six weeks. If you’d shaved, you’d be in the bathroom with your leg on the side of the bath in an awkward sex position with your fingers pulling your lady parts in ways that only a man should.”
“For someone who swears by wax, that was an awfully accurate description.”
Day shrugs. “We were all wax virgins once. Except my aunt pinned me down while we stood by and kind of laughed at you.”