Better than the Book (Charitable Endeavors #4) - M.E. Carter Page 0,1
than spacious, it’s a win-win. Plus, she’s always prompt with the rent. Really, I couldn’t ask for more.
Except maybe for the stab of pain that hits my brain every time I take a step to stop. Oye. Lack of sleep is a killer today.
I get the old school coffee maker going and take a deep breath, willing my stomach to settle. Maybe a little pickle juice will help.
Sounds gross, I know, but my grandmother’s favorite remedy always seems to work. Something about the vinegar balancing out an overabundance of stomach acid. I’m not a scientist so I don’t know if there is actual proof this works on a scientific basis or if she was making up theories. What I do know is a jar of pickles is cheaper than a bottle of Pepto Bismol and bonus—it doubles as a snack.
Grabbing one of the four teaspoons we own from the drawer, I swallow the cheapy medicine and wait for my stomach to stop churning.
And wait.
And wait.
And suddenly…
“Oh shit.” A dive for the sink and throw up everything in my stomach, which isn’t much. The only thing I had last night was a peanut butter sandwich. It was much better going down.
This is bad. This is very bad. Pickle juice always works to stop mild nausea. What it doesn’t stop, however, is full blown illness.
“I can’t be sick. I can’t be sick.” I’m chanting as if I say it enough times, it won’t be true, but suddenly my headache makes more sense. So do the shakes I’m feeling and the overall heaviness of my body.
As soon as the gag reflex calms down I rifle around the junk drawer looking for our thermometer. Since Anna and I share it, it only goes under our arm. Maybe not as accurate, but again… we’re starving artists. We make do with what we’ve got.
“Deep breaths, Celeste.” I follow my own instructions and breathe deeply. Maybe I can will myself into just being a little sick. Maybe I’m just pregnant.
That’s it! I’m pregnant! It’s been well over six months since I’ve been laid, and I can’t exactly afford a baby on my tiny budget but, hey, there are sacrifices I’m willing to make so I don’t miss this con. I have waited for too long to meet Hunter Stone. I will not miss out.
The thermometer beeps and I remind myself to add a degree. Wouldn’t want the baby doctor thinking I’m too cold. That makes it…
“One hundred two point six!” I groan at my bad luck before turning to upchuck in the sink again.
Looks like the only hunter I’ll be coming into contact with today is me, as I hunt for some meds to kill this headache.
I’m bored. And lonely. And sad.
Once I finally finished throwing up and managed to get some medicine in me and keep it down, I accepted the truth—there will be no convention for me this year. What I could have pretended was food poisoning has morphed into the full-blown flu. Stomach and otherwise.
Part of me still feels like jumping out of this bed and going anyway. The other part of me knows I’ll never make it without passing out in the cab. Plus, I don’t really want to be known as the girl who gives Hunter Stone the flu. Yes, I’d like to make an impression and throwing up on his shoe would be memorable, but I’ll pass this time. Me and my playbill will have to wait until next year.
I sigh deeply, disappointment running through me. There’s only one person who will understand how I’m feeling right now and why. So I pick up the phone and call.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on the road already?”
Carrie Myers knows me so well, as she should. We’ve been blogging together for years. It started as a hobby and turned into a way to make some extra income, thank goodness. Last month it paid my light bill. So we’ve been talking for at least an hour a week for years. She’s like a sister to me. A sister who just reminded me why my heart is in tiny pieces all over my bedspread.
I open my mouth to respond but I appear to be getting worse so instead I cough, sniffle, and wheeze before finally sharing my heartache. “Should be. But I have stupid luck and woke up this morning with a one hundred two fever and a body that won’t stop shivering.”
“Oh no!” she exclaims. Why does she sound winded? “So you can’t go?”