The nausea hits me halfway through measuring out bergamot oil, and I have to grip the edge of my worktable to steady myself.
Not again.
I've been telling myself for three days that it's still jet lag. That my body is still adjusting to the time change even though I've been back from Florence for over a month. That the exhaustion is just from working too hard, the queasiness from the cheap coffee I've been mainlining to stay awake.
It has nothing to do with Florence. With Grant. With that one perfect, impossible night that I've been trying—and failing—not to think about every waking moment since.
I breathe through my nose, willing my stomach to settle, and carefully cap the bergamot. My apartment is small enough that my entire operation fits in the corner of my living room—a folding table covered in bottles and beakers, a laptop balanced precariously on a stack of fragrance journals, handwritten notes taped to the wall above. It's chaotic and cramped and completely mine.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Poppy:Still alive over there?
Poppy:You've been ignoring my texts for 48 hours.
Poppy:I'm coming over. I have pad Thai and questions.
I stare at the messages, torn between relief and dread. Poppy Morrison has been my best friend since middle school, which means she can read me better than anyone. Which also means she's going to take one look at me and know something's wrong.
Me:Hey, girl! I'm fine. Just busy.
Poppy:Liar. I'm already on the subway. See you in 20.
I set the phone down and look around my apartment with the eyes of someone about to have company. It's not terrible—I'm not a slob, exactly—but there are takeout containers on the kitchen counter from the past three nights, and my bed is unmade, and I'm pretty sure I've been wearing the same leggings for two days.
I'm shoving the takeout containers into the trash when another wave of nausea rolls through me, stronger this time. I make it to the bathroom just in time, my knees hitting the tile as I retch into the toilet.
There's nothing in my stomach. I haven't been able to eat much beyond crackers and ginger ale.
I'm washing my face when I hear Poppy ring the buzzer. I buzz her up and unlock the door, then sink onto my couch, suddenly incredibly exhausted.
She lets herself in, carrying two bags of Thai food and wearing an expression that's half concern, half I-told-you-so.
"You look like death," she announces, setting the bags on my coffee table.
"Hello to you too."
Poppy drops onto the couch beside me, her dark eyes scanning my face with the intensity of a medical professional. Which she's not—she's a singer with a band that plays dive bars in Brooklyn—but she's also the most observant person I know.
"When's the last time you ate something?" she asks.
"This morning. I had toast."
"Emma."
"What? Toast is food."
She pulls containers out of the bag, the smell of pad Thai and curry hitting me like a wall. My stomach lurches.
"I'm not really hungry," I say quickly.
Poppy's hands still as she takes a closer look at me.
"How long have you been sick?"
"I'm not sick. I'm just tired."
"Come on, girl. You look exhausted. You're not eating. You're ignoring my texts." She reaches over and presses the back of her hand to my forehead like my mother used to do when I was little. "You're clammy. What's going on?"
