I don’t have time to finish the thought because my stomach rolls and I heave, the force of it nearly bringing me to my knees. I lose my grip on the water bottle, and it drops to the ground, the contents spilling out on the dry, cracked earth.
“It’s okay,” Miles whispers, gathering my hair and holding it back. “I’ve got you.”
And he does, using his free hand to rub soothing circles on my back.
I stiffen and then relax into his touch. The gentle, reassuring weight of it is a welcome comfort.
One I hadn’t expected.
There’s been a lot of intimate touching over the last few days, but it’s all been pleasure based. We don’t cuddle or find excuses to brush up against each other in public. We don’t share a bed. And we definitely don’t do morning-breath kisses.
So why is he holding my hair back?
That’s a boyfriend move.
My chest tightens.
I can’t afford to think like that. Can’t afford to go looking for meaning where there is none.
His reasons are his own, and they’re none of my business. The whole point of this fling is to get Miles out of my system once and for all.
And obsessing over his motives? Thoughts? Feelings?
That’s the opposite of moving on.
Just breathe.
An eternity passes before my stomach settles again, and when the worst of it has abated, Miles jogs back to the Jeep for another bottle of water as I use a wad of tissues to clean my face.
I must look like a train wreck, but it doesn’t seem to bother him as he hands me a second bottle of water.
“I’m going to figure out where the nearest campground is and see if they’ve got any sites available.” He pulls out his phone as I do the whole swish-and-spit routine. “Needles is still a few hours away. There’s no point upsetting your stomach further by pressing on today.”
“It’s fine.” I straighten, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. “We should stick to the itinerary.”
I’ve already paid for our campsite in Needles, and budget-savvy travelers don’t pay twice.
“Lucy, you just heaved up your guts. The only place we’re going is the nearest campground, so you can rest and recover.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Because the last time you convinced me to deviate from the itinerary, it turned out so well.”
“I made a mistake.” He frowns like the admission leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “But I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”
Thirty minutes later, Miles has got us checked into a campground, and he’s stabilizing Tallulah as I lay curled up on my bed with a small pot.
Just in case.
I’ve never had food poisoning before, but I’ve heard it can last for days.
For the love of God, please don’t let it last for days.
I’m not sure I’d survive it. I’m already sweating bullets, and my hands won’t stop shaking. Plus, there’s the itinerary. We only have two more days to make it to Santa Monica.
I’d rather not spend them sick as a dog, thank you very much.
“How’re you doing?” Miles asks, lumbering through the door of the Airstream, a look of concern etched on his face.
I groan. Words are too much effort right now. Sounds are far more effective.
