“Want anything before you go to bed?”
“Will you grab me something to drink and come to bed with me?” Despite all that’s going on, Trace is pretty normal behaving when he’s home. That’s what I want. Normal. I want Trace to hold me in his arms while I fall asleep.
“Yeah. I’ll do that.” He kisses my forehead before walking away.
I get ready for bed and am thankful to see he brought me a glass of water. I drink some of it while he changes and take my pills. We climb into bed. Trace pulls me against him, and I take a deep breath. This is my boyfriend. He rubs my back in those long soothing motions. Soon, I’m asleep once more.
I swear I wake up every time I turn in my sleep. It feels like all I’ve done is toss and turn. Sick of it, I get out of bed. Good news is it’s only an hour before I normally wake up. Bad news is I’m freaking tired and feel sick. Again.
Just as I make it to the bathroom, my stomach is super queasy and vomit is pushing its way up my throat. I’ll be happy when this isn’t part of my anxiety. I never want to throw up again.
“Britt? Damn, you okay?” he asks as he pulls my hair away from my face.
“No, I’m not okay,” I snap. This is all his fault.
“You might’ve caught a bug. Maybe you should go to the doctor.”
Throwing up interrupts my answer. Taking deep breaths, I say, “Why? If it’s a virus, there’s not a lot they can do.” Not to mention that it’s not a virus. It’s anxiety.
“Call in sick. Stay home and relax.”
“I’ll be fine. Oh, god.” Here it comes again. Last night’s dinner gushes out of my mouth rapidly and back to back, making it hard to breathe. When is this going to end?
A few minutes later, apparently. When I slowly stand, Trace curses under his breath.
“What?” I ask.
He positions me in front of the mirror. There are dozens of little red dots on my eyelids and around my eyes. “It’s probably popped blood vessels from all the pressure around your eyes when you’re throwing up.”
Great. Good thing I own some concealer, or I might actually consider not going into work. With a sigh, I brush my teeth. Trace stands behind me with worried eyes. Good. Maybe he’ll tell me what the hell he’s up to and end this. Then again, he thinks I’m sick.
“I want you to stay home from work and rest.”
I rinse my mouth. “I’ll be fine.”
“Britt, you’re white as a sheet. You have to feel like shit. Why do you want to go in to work anyway?”
“Because I know how I feel and I’ll be fine.”
He frowns. I walk out of the bathroom and climb back into bed. Trace follows after me. He dozes off, but I stay awake, feeling too bad to sleep. Maybe I am sick. When Trace wakes up to see I haven’t gotten any sleep, he hands my phone to me.
“Call it in.”
I narrow my eyes, not enjoying how he’s giving me orders, but I call in sick because I feel like shit. Once Trace has gotten ready for work, he leaves and retur
ns moments later with a bottle of water and a pack of saltine crackers. He leans over to give me a kiss on the forehead.
“I’ll come check on you at lunch.”
Oh, so I have to be sick for him to have lunch with me? Go figure. “Thanks,” I mumble anyway.
He gives me another kiss on the forehead and tells me to feel better before leaving. I’ve never taken a day off work. It feels weird. I feel bad about it once noon comes around and I feel just fine, just like I knew I would. Trace comes home with a bowl of chicken noodle soup and ginger ale.
“How are you feeling?” he asks as he hands me my lunch.
“Fine. I feel like I should go into work.”
Trace shakes his head. “Might as well enjoy the rest of your day off. Besides, you don’t want to go in and feel bad again.”