Cold tile under my cheek. I breathe through my mouth and stare at the grout line like it can steady me. The sour taste hangs in the back of my throat; my stomach clenches once more just to make sure there’s nothing left.
I pull myself upright against the wall, knees bent, palms flat to cool tile. Sweat sticks my hair to my neck. The room smells like citrus soap and what I just gave back. I close my eyes until the spin eases.
It hits me all at once how stupid it was to eat just because he told me to. Cold eggs, stewed tomato, toast gone soggy. Nothing better than cold eggs with a side of terror to settle the stomach.
I slowly stand, testing my balance before walking to the sink. I run the tap, rinse my mouth, and splash water over my face until my skin tingles.
The mirror gives me a pale, damp stranger. I sit again on the floor, back to the wall, and hold my ribs while the last tremor passes. It’s not food poisoning. It’s the situation, the waiting, the way every sound in the hall tightens every part of me.
When my hands stop shaking, I reach for the towel and press it to my mouth, breathing slow, counting to ten, then ten again.
I lean my head back against the tub and close my eyes. A week stretches out in my mind like a film spliced from too-bright scenes: the balcony, the hill, the kitchen, his bed. The way he watched me taste and seemed satisfied by something that had nothing to do with food.
Was it real? The question tastes worse than the bile.
What kind of man is he, really? The facts aren’t romantic: he holds my mother’s debt. That’s true. But he also gave me a way to pay it back faster and without emptying our pockets. Both things can be true. Power and care in the same hands.
Did he hire me because I’m good, or because he wanted me under his roof? I can’t unsee the way he looked at me when Iplated something right. I also can’t unsee the way he looked at me when I was naked. Maybe he wanted both. Maybe he always wants both.
If it were only money, he could have squeezed. He didn’t. If it were only sex, he could have been careless. He wasn’t. He watched me the way a man watches a problem he means to solve, and a person he means to keep safe, and I don’t know how to measure those against each other.
I try to replay the moments that would have been fake if any of it were. The way he held me after taking everything. The way he let me set the pace but still took control when I needed it. The way he didn’t kiss me in the airport because he knew I needed a clear mind once we got back.
None of that fits with a man running a con.
But the debt sits between us, no matter what I want to believe. Numbers are cold, and men holding those numbers can be colder. Maybe he wanted to even the balance in more ways than one. Maybe I made it too easy to blur columns.
I press the towel to my face again. If I get out of this, I’ll ask him. Not with my body this time. With my mouth. With all the questions I keep pushing away, afraid of the answers. And if he doesn’t like it, good. I’m tired of guessing what kind of man he is. I want the answer from him, not the version I built to survive the week.
I lurch forward without warning and grip the bowl. Another wave, meaner than the last. My throat burns; my eyes sting. When it passes, I sag back on my heels and breathe through my mouth until the room steadies.
Food poisoning? Maybe. Cold eggs and fear, I think to myself. I press my palm to my belly. It feels tight and hollow at the same time.
I wasn’t right on the plane either. Too tired, physically and mentally. Headachy. Off. Since we landed, my emotions have been ricocheting. Up, down, sideways. None of it helpful.
Could it be… that? The thought flashes, and I swat it away like a fly. Couldn’t be. Too soon. It’s too soon. That’s what I tell myself.
I sink back down to the floor.
How could this happen?
Well, I know the ‘how’.
That’s not the mystery. It’s the timing. Even if it were true… It’s too soon.
Still, stress like this, adrenaline, a long plane ride, plus the jet lag, and no sleep. And now my wacky hormones. It’s like a torrent of emotions.
I wrap my arms around my middle and try to breathe slowly and count again. To four, to six, to eight, until the tremor in my hands eases a notch.
Am I pregnant?
I cover my face with my hands when my breath starts to hitch.
I breathe until the hiccuping edges of panic smooth out. In, hold, out. Again. The room is quiet enough that I can hear the tiny click of the clock hands through the wall.
Okay. Practical. I can do practical.
I push up, slowly, and sit on the tub rim until the pressure in my head eases. The faucet once again. I cup the cool, gentle water and sip, just enough to rinse the taste, then a little more. If I dehydrate, I’m useless. I keep it down. Small victory.
