She’s absolutely gorgeous.
In her clothes and out.
I swallow thickly, trying to choke back the acid coating the back of my tongue. I force a smile solely for her benefit, like I wasn’t just going to bug the fuck out of here, but I can tell by the way hers fades, that she’s not fooled.
Her mom is right behind her, an older version of Fawnie, stoic in a white blouse, black cardigan, and black slacks. She looks like she’s ready for the office, while Fawnie is giving all the sexy librarian dreams that I’ve never even had until this moment.
Fawnie’s lush blonde hair is swept up into a tangle of curls with little crystal pins that wink and sparkle in the faux candlelight.
Stars, I realize, as she reaches me.
They’re stars to match her blouse.
Her makeup is gorgeous, heavy black eyeliner with little black stars drawn on right by the wingtip at the corner of her eye. She chose bold, red lipstick. It suits her. All of it. She’s the most beautiful woman here tonight. She’ll always be the most beautiful woman wherever she goes. I’m convinced that there’s not a single person in the world who could match her.
I greet her mom stiffly, mumbling a few of the token words that pass for a hello, then sit my ass back down into the hard seat beside Fawnie’s, telling myself to keep it there and not go straight into a full blown panic attack.
It’s hard to do, especially when Fawnie sits right beside me, blocking her mom’s view of my face. Her lips press into a flat line, and there’s no disguising the worry in her eyes.
Great. I look that fucking good, huh?
“Finn,” she breathes, her hand coming up discreetly to brush the side of my thigh. Her heat scalds me right through the barrier of the denim. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”
Yup. She’s always had my number.
My eyes frantically scan the place, the bowl of seats angled around the stage in the center, all the tiers, rows and rows, people starting to stream out, flowing between them, around them, filling the place up in an array of color and a loud buzz of voices.
I want to tell her that I’m fine, reassure her, give her something to work with, but I have nothing. No words. Bright flickers of light burst behind my eyes as my stomach rolls. The scents of the place, too much perfume and cologne, hairspray, and laundry detergent press in on me.
My hand shoots out to grip what, I don’t know.
It lands on Fawnie’s knee and curls too hard. My rough fingers dig into her smooth black hose. Sweat doesn’t just bead on my forehead any longer. It pours from my temples. My stomach rises up, lurching into my throat. I’m going to vomit. I’m going to puke my guts up right in front of Fawnie and her mom and every single person here and the fucking symphony hasn’t even started yet. I thought people were going to stare at me because I’m a burned and disgusting freak?
Fuck no.
I’ll be the main goddamn show. A mess. A wretched—
Fawnie stands, takes my arm in her hands, and jerks me up with her.
“We’re just going to find the washroom, Mom,” she says. “We need a moment of quiet and a bottle of water from the concession. We’ll be right back, okay?”
Her mom says something. I can hear her voice, but the words blur together, blending into the roar of too many people talking. My head swims, lights gliding behind closed lids. When I open my eyes again, it’s even worse. A sickening blur.
Fawnie glides past me. She never lets go of my hand. Her fingers curl into mine, warm and reassuring even through the leather. She leads me, pulling me along the concrete edge, over to the stairs. There aren’t that many, and there’s a railing, thank fuck.
She seems to know where she’s going, even though I don’t think she’s been here before. She doesn’t stop at the landing. She leads me past the concession, clogged with far too many bodies, straight into an open stretch of carpeted hallway, and then finally down a narrow hall. I blink just enough to catch thesign that has a picture of a man and a woman with children. A family bathroom.
She pushes open the door. It’s heavy and slams shut behind us. She twists the lock and flips the light on. It’s spacious, with a sink, a change table area, and one toilet.
Just seeing that makes it so much worse. The second my eyes land on it, the onslaught of nausea is too strong to control.
I stumble to it and sink down to my knees on the floor. The floor of the public bathroom. It’s clean. Smells like lemons and bleach, but still. It’s the final nail in the puke coffin that I can’t keep closed.
I bend forward, coughing and gagging, my ravaged throat making it sound and feel so much worse. Nothing much comes up except strings of bile and mucus. I haven’t eaten all day. I didn’t drink enough. It’s straight acid, putrid and foul. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes as badly as my throat burns.
I’ve never felt more disgusting, especially when Fawnie bends over me, her sweet vanilla tropical scent flooding my nose. It’s not overpowering on her the way the mash of scents wasoutthere. She rubs small circles on my back, taking care with me, aware that even through the layers of clothing, I’m sensitive underneath. Damaged. Raw in so many ways.
All I can do is pant and retch, try to breathe and gag as my stomach cramps and roils.
