“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
He hugs me close and again, I let him. I shouldn’t because I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. This is exactly the kind of mixed signal I promised myself I wouldn’t send, and here I am, sending it in high definition with my cheek an inch from his lapel. He’s warm and solid, and he smells nice, and none of it helps, because he’s not the male I want holding me.
I try so hard not to look at the other side of the dance floor. I stare at Malachite’s shoulder. But it doesn’t take long for my gaze to drift.
Of course I look.
Magma and Brook are wrapped up in each other. Her arms are around his neck, and his hands are on the bare skin of her back where the gold dress dips away, and they’re swaying close, cheek to cheek, whispering in each other’s ears. She sayssomething. He says something back. Her fingers slide into the hair at his nape.
Something inside me goes very quiet.
“Are you okay?” Malachite asks.
I blink up at him. We’ve stopped moving. I didn’t know we had. We’re standing still in the middle of a dance floor full of dancing people.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Except I’m not fine.
There’s a slick, greasy feeling working its way up from my stomach, and all at once the room is too warm and too loud. Maybe the dinner didn’t agree with me. I had the steak with that rich, creamy mushroom sauce, and I haven’t eaten anything like that in weeks. My poor body is used to grilled chicken and steamed greens now, and I hit it with cream sauce and half a Cosmo, which I drank in five minutes flat.
I press a hand flat against my tummy.
It doesn’t help.
“Are you feeling okay?” Malachite asks again, ducking to catch my eyes, his hands moving to my arms.
“No.” The word comes out small.
My stomach rolls.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
I’m going to throw up.
49
Carla
I run off the dance floor, past a blur of tables and startled faces, and down the hallway toward the bathrooms. My hand is planted over my mouth. My eyes are wide. I am not going to throw up in the middle of Robyn’s wedding reception. I am not. I refuse.
My stomach rolls, and I’m pretty sure I feel sweat bead on my forehead.
No!
Nooooo!
The bathrooms are a row of unisex rooms, each one self-contained with its own door. I was in one earlier tonight and took a whole minute to admire it, because whoever decorated this venue deserves an award. Gorgeous dark and moody wallpaper, gold fittings, a gold-framed mirror above the basin, and a little gold dish for the hand soap. Each room has a toilet and a basin and enough elegance to make a woman feel fancy while she washes her hands.
There is no time for admiring anything. Not this time.
I hit the door of the room toward the end, shove it open, and drop to my knees in front of the toilet. I don’t know how I make it. I’m out of time before I’m even down. I lean over the bowl and gag, once, twice, three times, my body heaving with it.
Nothing comes out, which makes me feel sicker. By now I’m starting to get hot as another wave hits.
“Carla!”
