“Yeah, give it up while you’re pregnant. I don’t mind, and it isn’t like I couldn’t stand to lose a few.” He patted his toned stomach. “Owen has been trying to get me to eat healthier, anyway. Maybe this will get him off my back.”
“I thought you liked that,” I muttered, making him smirk. “No. It’s fine. And it isn’t fair for you to suffer just because I am.”
“Even if I don’t mind?” he asked, tilting his head.
“Yes.” Again, I blew out a long breath. “And anyway, I’m pretty sure Owen wants you to go vegan. Not give up alcohol.”
“And that won’t be happening,” Trevor replied as he took another sip. When he’d once again set down his glass, he said, “Do you want to leave? Since you can’t eat, I mean.”
“I can eat.” My nose wrinkled when I glanced around, taking in the food the people at the nearby tables were digging into. “It just sounds awful.”
My stomach flipped when I looked at my wristband, thinking about someone at the Department of Fertility monitoring me right now. My conversation, maybe? I wasn’t sure about that, norwas I totally certain they would know if I missed a meal, but after the secondhand smoke incident, I wasn’t willing to risk it.
“I’ll order a salad.” I scanned the menu. “With chicken so I get some protein. If I can’t eat it all tonight, I can take it to work tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Trevor replied just as the waitress approached our table.
I only managed to get down three bites of the salad, but like the good little government impregnated girl I was, I took it home with the intention of eating the rest the next day. It didn’t happen. Not because my intentions changed, but because I woke twenty minutes before my alarm went off and had to rush to the bathroom. After a good fifteen minutes of heaving – half of which produced nothing – I dragged myself into the living room and curled up on the couch. My stomach was still roiling, and my head was pounding, and I felt like death. Or like I’d partied way too hard the night before.
Since I didn’t want to miss work, I forced myself to sip some water and munch on some crackers, but when I once again had to rush to the bathroom, I gave up and shot Teresa a text. From the bathroom floor.
BEEN THROWING UP. WILL BE LATE. SORRY.
Her response came a few minutes later as I was brushing my teeth.
NO RUSH. IF YOU CAN’T COME IN, WE’LL MAKE DO.
I appreciated how understanding she was, but the thought of sitting at home all day with my thoughts as my only company wasn’t appealing, so even though my stomach was still uneasy, I made myself get ready for work. I sipped water as I showered, closing my eyes and breathing slowly when my mouth filled with saliva and my stomach tried to claw its way up my throat. Thefeeling passed, allowing me to dry off and dress, but I had to repeat the process when the nausea once again hit as I was blow drying my hair.
Thankfully, I made it out of my apartment without hurling again – although the stink of frying food in the stairwell nearly did me in. I chose to leave my salad at home because the thought of eating it was more repulsive than the idea of assisting a doctor in amputating a limb. At this point, I was pretty sure I would never be able to order the same thing again.
I inhaled and exhaled slowly on my walk to work, concentrating on calming my uneasy stomach. Whether it was the effort, or because the morning sickness had passed, I wasn’t sure, but either way, I was grateful that by the time I arrived at work, I was feeling relatively okay. And I was only a little more than an hour late.
The first person I saw when I stepped into the building was Bruce, a fortyish guy who looked like the stereotypical former jock who hadn’t yet accepted that high school was way in his past.
“You’re late.”
“And you can tell time.” I shrugged, hoping my nonchalance would prevent him from asking questions. Even under normal circumstances, I didn’t savor talking to this guy, but I definitely didn’t want to now.
Not deterred by my indifference, he frowned. “Did Teresa know you were going to be late?”
He’d always given off the impression that not only did he think women should never be in charge, but also that we couldn’t be trusted to stay on top of things and needed constant monitoring. Usually from men such as himself. Seriously, it was like he thought it was 1955, not 2067.
I gave an irritated sigh. “Yes, Bruce. I can text, and so can she.”
He frowned. “I never said you couldn’t.”
“But for some reason you think you need to be involved in things that are none of your business.”
“I think whatever happens here is my business,” he replied in a superior tone. “We all have to work together, after all.”
“You don’t have to remind me of that,” I muttered as I moved past him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I waved over my shoulder, not bothering to look at him. “Nothing.”
He grumbled something I couldn’t hear, and I didn’t care to know what it was. Honestly, there was no point in even trying to have a conversation when it came to men like him.
