Crawling my way to the bathroom, I make it just in time for my stomach to revolt. Once there’s nothing left to expel, I flush the toilet, wipe off my face, brush my teeth, and zombie walk my way back to the bed where I land face first into my pillow. Blindly, I reach over to the nightstand and grab one of my ginger candies off the top and unwrap it, toss it into my mouth while I silently pray that it kicks in fast.
Knocking on the door has me calling out a smothered, “Come in.”
I weakly manage to turn my head until my cheek is resting on the pillow case and notice Jersey lightly walking into the room. “Rough night?”
“More like a rough morning,” I answer.
“What can I do to help?” she asks, always ready and willing to lend a helping hand wherever she can. This is what I love about my bestie. She has a heart of gold and is always putting other people’s needs above her wants.
I point to the kitchenette in the corner and ask, “If you wouldn’t mind, could you go into the cupboards and grab a sleeve of crackers and a can of ginger ale out of the fridge?”
“Of course,” she responds. “Anything else I can do?”
“Not that I can think of,” I respond, rolling over onto my back and slowly gliding up the mountain of pillows until my back is plastered against the backboard. “Oh, wait. My anti-nausea medicine is in my purse, could you grab that box for me too?”
I’ve never been more grateful that my doctor had a few samples at her practice to hand out since I still haven’t managed to make it to the pharmacy to fill my prescription.
“Have you seen the guys, Jersey?”
“I saw glimpses of them,” she replies. “They’ve been coming in and out in droves with serious looks on their faces.”
“Was LoneStar one of those men?”
“Yes, Britton. I saw him too, he’s okay,” she reassures me.
“Good,” I say, deflating.
“I told you he’d be alright, Britton.”
“I know you’re dying to say it, Jersey, so just spit it out,” I demand.
She singsongs, “I told you.”
“You did,” I confirm, not in the right mindset to trade barbs with her, feeling drained.
“You don’t have a comeback, Britton? You really are feeling bad, aren’t you?”
“I’m not quite myself,” I respond. “I have zero energy, my stomach is churning, and my head is aching.”
She rustles through my purse, grabbing the sample box and sprinting over, removing the pill from the plastic packaging. She places it in the palm of my hand, pops the top on my can of ginger ale, and passes that to me as well. “Slow sips,” she orders.
After I swallow the medication, I mumble, “Bossy.”
“Only when the situation calls for it,” she implies. “Which isn’t often. Thank goodness.”
“Alpha female you are not,” I tease, trying to forget my woes. Mainly, the fact that my kid is the spawn of the devil who wears cowboy boots and hat.
“And I probably never will be,” she conveys. “I like standing in the background and going with the flow. Life is less messy that way.”
For what seems like the millionth time, I curse her parents and hope that they have a slow and painful death when their time comes. They need to suffer like they caused their daughter to. Unlike my parents, they presented a picture perfect family, dressing in finer clothes, donating a shit load of money tocharity, and playing the part of doting parents. It’s what they did when they were out of the spotlight where they showed their true colors.
But that’s not my story to tell. Years ago, I promised I would never tell anyone what she endured. That’s why I don’t even like to think about it. When I’m not feeling well or I’m caught in an emotional spiral, I tend to put my foot in my mouth, and I never want to betray Jersey’s confidence—not even in my own thoughts.
I pat the seat next to me and state, “Come sit next to me and tell me what all I missed while I was away.”
She rolls her eyes at me but comes and sits where I directed. “My life is uber boring, Britton. The only thing I did while you were out on your adventure was teach and head back to my house.”
“Adventure,” I scoff. “That’s not exactly what I’d call it. It’s the only way I can think about it without spiraling,” I admit.
