Page 57 of Sinister

“And we’ll ace it,” he says confidently. “But right now, let’s talk about us, Petra. If there can even be an ‘us’ . . .” Alluring words that I long to sink into, but a sense of discomfort has settled over me now.

I’m not used to this kind of attention, especially from someone like Sin.

But just as I’m about to respond, the waiter arrives with the main course. The buttery risotto looks divine—but I know something’s wrong the instant I smell the shellfish.

My stomach turns, and a wave of nausea washes over me, chilling my limbs and making me dizzy. Panic sets in as I realize I might be sick.

“Excuse me,” I mutter and get up, nearly knocking over my chair as I rush toward the restroom.

I completely ignore Sin when he says, “Petra, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

As the bile gushes to my throat, his words are drowned out and distorted, eventually fading away when I step into the women’s room.

Luckily, I make it to the toilet just in time. The walls around me spin briefly, but I take deep breaths and splash cold water on my face to suppress whatever vile effluvium my hormone-racked body wants to keep spewing out.

Like that possessed girl from The Exorcist.

Humor doesn’t really help my situation as the room keeps shifting around me.

I just huddle down and bury my head in my knees like I do during the intermittent episodes of morning sickness that have marked my days as of late.

Minutes trickle by, or maybe millennia, before my head and stomach seem to settle down. I fix my hair and face again before plastering on a fake smile and stepping out of the washroom.

But when I return to our table, the sight unfolding before me halts me in my tracks.

Sin is surrounded by a group of his school friends, and loud bouts of laughter and raucous conversation have engulfed the table. And just like that, I feel alienated again, standing on the outside and looking in at the scene of casual camaraderie before me.

“Petra!” Sin calls out the minute he sees me. “What happened? Are you all right?” He strides over to where I am standing, and I can feel the group’s attention shifting to me.

“I’m fine,” I manage to say with a forced smile. “Just stress and bad sleep catching up to me, I think.”

Sin continues to look worried as he guides me to our table, which is now occupied by boys and girls who are surveying me with the same interest as a pack of lions would show on sighting a lone deer.

One of the girls, her hair perfectly styled and her makeup flawless, eyes me curiously.

“Hi, Petra,” she says in the same tone in which one might say, “Die, Petra.”

“I didn’t know you were friends with Sin,” she continues, though her tone suggests she’s more surprised than impressed.

“We’re partners for the Art History project,” I clarify.

But Sin adds, “She’s the brains of the operation, of course. She knows everything about art.” His voice is proud and encouraging, and I smile weakly, grateful for his attempt to include me.

His friends glance at me for a moment more before resuming their conversation. I sit quietly on the side, trying and miserably failing to not feel too excluded.

After a while, Sin turns to me, his expression softening.

“You okay?” he repeats his earlier question in a more covert tone that is only intended for my ears.

“Yeah,” I lie, forcing another smile. “Just . . . a little overwhelmed.”

“We can leave anytime. Just say the word.”

I glance at the cheerful faces around us and then back at Sin. Maybe I was too quick to judge him. Maybe, just maybe, he actually did want to wine and dine and romance me before his stupid friend group showed up.

“We’ll see how it goes,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. I don’t want to be a Yoko to his band. “But about the project⁠—”

“You’re relentless, aren’t you?” Sin laughs and squeezes my hand. Be still, my heart. And belly! “Okay, how about this? We finish dinner, say goodbye to these guys, and then go somewhere quieter to talk about our plans. Deal?”