She beams and scurries over to where I’m still clutching my guitar to my chest, unable to move from my stool. “You’re pregnant? I had a little girl last year. How far along are you?”
Outside of my close friends and family, no one knows. Plus Jimmy, but only because he wanted to know why his singer had her head shoved in the toilet rather than entertaining guests. Since then, I’ve cut back on my bar hours and concentrated more on private evening gigs, where there’s less chance of me being sick.
I stand on wobbly legs. “Eleven weeks today. It’s early, so if you could keep it to yourself…”
“Oh, of course. The first trimester is a bitch.” She scans the clipboard in her hands. “You’re not needed until four. Why don’t you take a nap in the breakroom? Can I get you anything?”
I could weep at her kindness. “Really?”
“Girl, get off your feet. I’ll get the tech guy to move your equipment to the main room and come get you with enough time to freshen up.”
Yeah, I’m crying. “Nina, you’re a literal saint. Now, tell me all about your little girl.”
The nap was a glorious mistake.
Nina, bless her heart of gold, forgot to mention the breakroom was also where the staff ate. Today, someone chose a hot tuna sub. The smell of fish and onions and something sour wakes me like the most offensive alarm clock.
My abrupt retching spooks the culprit, sandwich halfway to his mouth.
“Restrooms. Where are the restrooms?” I splutter, stomach rolling.
The stunned server points to the corridor. “Left. Second door.”
I spring from the sofa, no time to slip into my pumps, and sprint out of the room. My feet slap against the tiled floor as I careen into the restroom. I greet the toilet just in time to empty the sorry contents of my stomach—saltines, water, and ginger candy.
The evenings are the only time I’m able to stomach food,and recently, I’ve begun craving cereal of any kind, sans milk. Odd, but I’m not arguing with my hormones or the cravings of the baby. Food is food, though tuna is definitely off the menu now.
Damn my stupid hair. I try to push it back from my face and out of the firing range but it keeps falling over my shoulder.
“Here,” a low voice says from behind me.
No. For the love of all that is holy, no.
The deep, husky timber is in my head. Before I can protest, two things happen: warm, gentle hands collect my hair, and my stomach goes for round two.
Goodbye, dignity. It was nice knowing you.
In between dry heaving and wanting to flush myself down the toilet, Warren rubs light circles at the top of my spine. Once I’m done, I snatch up a handful of toilet paper and wipe my mouth.
“Can I call someone?”
I squint at the wall, praying when I turn around, the man clutching my hair is Warren’s voice doppelgänger. “This is the ladies.”
A throat clears. “I assure you, it isn’t.”
Twisting in my spot on the floor, a row of urinals blur in my vision, partially obscured by the tall, suit-clad man crouched behind me. Oh, he’s real, and exactly as I remember him: unfairly handsome, dark hair styled back, beard trimmed, and tuxedo fitting him like a glove.
And here I am, a sweaty, puking mess, sprawled across the toilet seat, attempting to catch her breath and hang on to any remaining shred of decency. “Thank you for helping. Now, please pretend I’m not here and go enjoy your wedding.”
He presses his lips together. “I’m not sure my conscience will allow me to leave you like this. You clearly need help.”
I’m aware my reaction is uncalled for, but in the moment, it’s rational. Help? Yes, I could’ve done with his help weeks ago. My friends and sister rallied around me since day one. And yes, he’s unaware of the child we conceived, but after weeks of fatigue, sickness, and doctor appointments, the stress that’s slowly built has to find an outlet. He’s the sorry victim of my unbridled frustration.
I flush, clutch the toilet paper dispenser, and haul myself to stand. He stumbles back when I stomp out of the cubicle, taken aback by my sudden burst of energy.
“Oh, I need help, all right,Warren.” I storm toward the sinks to rinse my mouth. “If that’s even your name.”
Our gazes clash in the mirror.
