Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
By the time I got to the hallway, the automatic lights in the stairway atrium were already on, and Dad was in the elevator on his way up. When the doors open and he saw me there, shaking like a nearly-drowned rat, he blinked and said, “Oh.”
“Oh?” Why was his skin so fucking pink and healthy? I’d seen my reflection on my way out. My lips were white, my skin tinged green. I looked like a freaking sewer zombie and he...
He was fine.
“Your mother is sick. I’m pretty concerned. She’s throwing up a lot. It’s coming out both—”
“I get it!” I snapped. Somehow, hearing about someone else’s vomit was enough to trigger my own gag reflex again. My dad sidestepped as I doubled over and forcibly ejected what I assumed would be our housekeeper’s reason for resignation all over the floor.
“Oh man, sport. I... I think there was something wrong with those mussels.” Dad rubbed my back while my nearly empty stomach seized and cramped.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I gasped, “Why aren’t you sick?”
“I picked the mussels out. I don’t trust bivalves. Even when they’re cooked by a real chef in a restaurant. You never know—”
Another dire emergency sent me tearing off down the hall to the half-bath.
“Is Matt sick, too?” Dad asked through the door when he caught up.
“Yes.” I gritted my teeth and braced a hand against the wall, hoping I could catch myself if the stomach cramps made me pass out or something.
“Okay. Look, this seems serious. I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“Are you kidding?” Then again, maybe the hospital would sedate me, and I wouldn’t have to consciously experience shitting myself to death.
“Food poisoning is nothing to play around with.” He was using his dad tone, so I knew there was no point in arguing. “Stay here. I’m going to go check on Matt.”
“Probably don’t do that,” I begged. “You don’t know him like that!”
“Yeah, well,” Dad said helplessly. “The point of this visit was to get to know each other better. And I think tonight, we’re going to accomplish that.”
* * * *
The low, steady beeping of our heart monitors and the clicks from our IV pumps were almost relaxing, once I got used to the rhythm. I looked across the curtained ER cubicle Matt and I shared. He stared straight ahead, one hand buried in the dark, sweat curled hair atop his head.
I’d seen guys less grim in photos of historical disasters.
“Boyfriends have made worse first impressions,” I said softly. Even in the half-darkness, I could make out the slightest twitch of a smile, but he didn’t turn his head toward me.
“This is a fucking nightmare.” His throat sounded as dry as mine was, but we were strictly NPO—nothing per oral—as the attending physician had ordered, and the little lemon swab things they’d given us to get the puke taste out of our mouths did not cut it.
“Look on the bright side,” I tried to joke. “We don’t have to be shy about the bathroom anymore.”
He grimaced, but he did laugh. Then, for what seemed like the ninth time that night, he swore, “I did everything right.”
Now that the anti-nausea drugs had kicked in, it felt safer to discuss the dinner. “I’m sure you did. And nobody blames you. Like my dad said, he doesn’t trust bivalves. He picked them out.”
“I know they can be tricky. That’s why I used a recipe.” He sighed, utterly defeated.
“Well, maybe the recipe was wrong?” I suggested. “What did it say?”
“Oh, yes, please, let’s talk about shellfish in detail. It’s the perfect subject at the moment,” he grumbled. “I heated up the skillet, threw my olive oil in, sauteed the garlic, then added in the white wine, tomatoes, all the different seasonings, and I let the mussels simmer in that for seven minutes. Then I went through, opened up the ones that were still closed—”
I sat up, then regretted it. The brutal dehydration of the past few hours had turned my brain into a hard little bean ricocheting off the inside of my skull. I pinched the bridge of my nose and waited for the fireworks of pain to pass. “Wait. What do you mean, you opened them up?”
“There were a few that got stuck,” he said helplessly. “The recipe said to let them simmer for five to seven minutes. I didn’t want them to overcook.”
“Oh. Oh no, babe.” Laughing, even grim chuckles, made my overworked abdomen scream. I could hear the pain in my ears like the rope of a tire swing creaking.
“What?” When I didn’t immediately answer, he demanded again, “What?”
“If they don’t open, they’re bad ones. You’re supposed to throw them out. Did the recipe not say that?”
“It... might have,” he admitted quietly. “When I got to that part, you’d already gotten back from the airport and everything else was done. I kind of rushed through the rest and maybe I skimmed over that section.”