Then Malachite is there, right behind me.
“Are you okay?”
No. No, no, no. I am not okay; I’m sick, and now I’m mortified as well. I’m about to lose my dinner with someone standing right behind me. This is not happening.
I try to tell him to leave but gag instead, and my hair falls forward over my face. It still has lovely soft curls in it. That is a spectacularly stupid thing to notice at a time like this, and yet here I am, noticing it anyway.
If I wasn’t on the verge of puking, I’d laugh.
Malachite crouches and gathers my hair in one hand, holding it back and away from my face.
“No! Go! Away!” I get the words out one at a time before another gag takes me.
“It’s fine. I’ve got you, Carla. Let me help you.”
I try to argue. I try to yell at him. I can’t do either because I’m too busy feeling like death. Tears gather in my eyes. Not from the humiliation but because of how sick I feel. Although it could be both.
Then I gag one more time and actually throw up, and it looks like what I drank of the Cosmo and half of my dinner as well.
One more wave rolls through my stomach, and then, mercifully, it’s over. The nausea loosens its hold on me. My insides go quiet.
“That’s it,” Malachite says. “Breathe. Get it all out.”
Shit.
I just threw up in front of Malachite. At my best friend’s wedding. If there is a prize for worst date behavior, I have won it, and the trophy is a toilet bowl.
I get to my feet and flush, then turn to the basin and twist on the cold tap. I cup the water in my hand and start rinsing my mouth.
“Carla!”
It sounds like Magma is in the bathroom now too. This cannot be happening. I just puked. My mouth tastes like vomit.
What did I do to deserve this?
Suddenly there is no air left in here at all.
“What’s wrong?” he snarls. I glance his way, and his muscles are bunched under his dress shirt.
Holy shit.
Why are they both here? Why is he here?
I do the only reasonable thing and keep rinsing my mouth, taking big handfuls of cold water, swirling and spitting like my life depends on it.
“Um…it’s Carla… S-she…” Malachite stutters. “She isn’t feel?—”
“What did you say to her?” Magma shoves him against the wall, hard enough that the gold mirror rattles. “What did you do?”
“Nothing! I?—”
“What’s wrong, Carla?” he demands, but I’m mid-rinse and in no position to answer. He rounds on Malachite again. “What is wrong with her?” he roars, grabbing a handful of his dress shirt and knocking him back against the wall again. The mirror rattles harder, and for a second, I think it’s going to fall.
I practically choke on the water in my mouth.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Magma growls before Malachite can say a word.
“Yes, but I’m…” Malachite starts.
