Run, Ves, before things fall apart and this time you can’t recover from the heartbreak.
“It’s just stress,” I say before either of them can.“My body is being dramatic.”
“Stress doesn’t make you miss meals for weeks, fly across the planet, sleep in airports, and then act surprised when your stomach revolts,” Cally says.
I blink at him.“Wow.That was weirdly accurate and rude.Are you branching out into psychological bullying?”
Monty leans one hip against the counter, arms crossed, gaze locked on me like he’s already decided my excuses won’t pass inspection.“Did you eat during the flight?”
“I ate,” I protest, because lying is easier than admitting I’ve been living on caffeine and spite.
Cally’s brows lift.“What did you eat?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Because okay, fine—I had a few bites of the cheese plate until the smell made my stomach revolt.I gnawed on crackers like I hadn’t eaten in years.There was a banana that tasted like the inside of a suitcase, or feet, I can’t decide just yet.And a granola bar I found in my backpack that may have been from a previous life.
“Okay,” I say, pivoting so fast I should get drafted.“We are not doing a nutrition audit.A doctor is coming.We will let the professional judge me.”
Monty’s eyes narrow a fraction, like he’s not done.Like he wants the truth clean and complete.
“You’re going to tell them everything?”he asks.
“I’m going to tell them I’m a delicate forest creature who can’t handle modern life,” I say.“Then they’ll prescribe me a nap, a hug, and a restraining order against my overbearing men.”
Cally snorts, amusement breaking through his worry like he can’t help it.
Monty doesn’t laugh.He never does when he’s scared.
And then—right on cue—my stomach rolls low and sour.I press two fingers to my upper lip and force a smile that feels stapled on.“Okay, cool.Love that.Love that my stomach has opinions.”
Monty’s entire posture changes.Alert.He’s ready to bolt with me.“Bathroom?”
“Nah, I’m fine,” I lie, because I’m committed to my brand.
He doesn’t argue.He just watches me like he’s waiting for my body to decide for me.
My body is thrilled to prove him right.The nausea rises so fast I don’t even get the dignity of a joke.
I push up from the couch and sway, grabbing the edge of the coffee table.
Cally’s on his feet instantly.“Ves?—”
“Stop,” I snap, not because he’s wrong, but because if he sounds gentle right now, I will crack straight down the middle.
Monty steps closer, palm hovering near my waist.Not touching—just there.
I hate how safe it feels.
I hate it because safety with these two always comes at a cost.With history.With the possibility of losing them all over again.I couldn’t handle it.
“I’m going,” I mutter through my teeth, and then I walk like my pride is leading my body by the hand.
I make it to the bathroom—barely.
Of course, the bathroom is obscene.Marble.Floating sink.A mirror that makes me look like I’m haunted by dry shampoo and poor decisions.The lighting is flattering in a way that feels personally insulting when you’re trying not to throw up.
I grip the counter.Breathe, don’t let this happen.But of course, my stomach heaves.It’s like my body refuses to listen to me.We’re going to have a word—or two.
