my parade. Once he’s done, however, I shoot up and collect his plate. I need an excuse to move, hoping it’ll help with the nausea.
“I can do that. You cooked, so it’s only fair.” He goes to stand, but I gently push him back down. He peers up at me in confusion.
“It’s fine. I’m happy to do it. Doing normal things like this helps me forget.” And it’s true. Besides the past hour, I have felt normal, and it’s been wonderful.
I rinse off the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher. As I stand from my downward position, a wave of nausea rolls over me, and I think I’m going to be sick. Roman is thankfully distracted when his cell chimes, giving me the out I need.
“I’m just going to use the bathroom.” I barely get out the words before dashing down the hallway, both hands covering my mouth to stop from being sick.
I slam the door shut behind me and run over to the toilet, throwing up the contents of my stomach as I cradle the bowl. Tremors wrack my body, and I shudder, unable to stop the vomit. A light sheen of perspiration coats my body, bringing home the cold sweats.
Usually, I would be cursing the choice to do this to my body, but not today. My mindset has changed. I try to place a positive spin on it, hoping that every purge is eliminating my body of the disease which ravages it. Surely, the more I throw up, the better it is? I use this as my reasoning as I heave up everything I ate today.
I feel like utter shit, so when a soft knock sounds on the door, it’s expected for my response to be a garbled, “Go away.” My wishes are, of course, ignored, and when the door creaks open, I bury my head farther into the toilet bowl.
“Lola?” His concerned voice has me groaning. I feel like a fool. The visual he must have right now has me throwing up again.
“Don’t worry”—my voice echoes off the bowl—“I don’t think it’s contagious.” This is hardly the time to be making jokes, but it’s either that or I cry myself into a heap.
When his footsteps proceed toward me, I thrust my hand out, requesting he stay put. “No, don’t. I’m all icky.”
He tsks me, appearing unconcerned by my repulsive state. “Don’t be silly. I don’t care about that. How long have you been feeling sick?”
I shrug, cradling the bowl like it’s my lifeline. “About an hour.”
“What?” he admonishes. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because…” There are a million reasons, but only one word seems to suffice.
“You’re so stubborn.” If my head wasn’t wedged down a toilet, I’d poke my tongue out at him.
He moves around the room, pushing bottles and god knows what else out of the way. The faucet runs for a few seconds before he turns it off and walks my way. I surrender because I know any attempt to warn him to stay away will just fall on deaf ears.
His huge frame is at my back, and before I can ask what he’s doing, a warm cloth is applied to the back of my neck. The sensation appeases my tremors as my body instantly reacts to the warmth.
“That feels n-nice. Th-thank you.” I almost hum in relief.
I don’t quite trust myself to remove my head from the bowl, so I stay still, enjoying the calm. He turns the cloth over, ensuring I stay heated. After a few minutes, he rises and wets the towel once again.
My stomach soon settles, but I know it’s just a ruse. It’ll flare up again. It always does. “I’m s-sorry,” I stammer. I’m suddenly so cold. “I’ve ruined a perfect evening.”
“Lola.” His voice is heavy. “No, you didn’t. Believe it or not, today is the best day I’ve had in a very long time.”
I half laugh, half choke. “You really need to get out more then.” A wave rolls over me, like a tsunami, poised and ready to drag me under.
“Roman, go.” It’s all I croak out before I’m violently ill once again. Tears leak from my eyes, and I almost gag from the burn. No food is left in my stomach, but my body wants to purge.
“No, I’m not going anywhere,” he argues. And he calls me stubborn.
I’m so embarrassed that Roman is here, watching this more than horrifying sight. One wouldn’t blame him if he fled from this room and returned with sanitizer and bleach.