Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Sawyer’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline. “And Matthew went along with it?”
I cringe. “That day, yeah.”
“What did you end up telling them?”
I frown, confused. Then, “No, of course! I’m not getting back with Matthew!”
I can’t blame Sawyer for wanting confirmation of that. Monday I intentionally made the situation sound vague enough that in his mind, the door might have been left open. That was not one of my finest moments.
Sawyer leans over the table. “Listen, I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way we’d hoped, but that doesn’t mean we should throw in the towel.”
“No. I know.” I reach across the table, holding out my hand for his. When his warm palm covers mine, relief washes over me. I smile. “I still like you. Despite all the hurdles.”
Sawyer smiles back, a full-fledged knock-your-socks-off expression with dimples and all. “I like you too.”
“So we’re still together? You’ll forgive me?” I venture cautiously. Lord knows I’ve put this man through the wringer; I don’t deserve for him to still be here, willing to give me a chance.
He squeezes my hand. “More than ever.”
“All right. Whoa. Clear the table!” a waiter calls as he approaches. “I’ve got three heaping trays of food comin’ your way.”
We laugh and break apart as he starts setting out plates of smoked chicken, brisket, and pork ribs slathered in tangy barbecue sauce. Surrounding those are sides of coleslaw, baked beans, a plate piled high with fried okra, freshly baked bread, and two big glasses of iced tea.
The food is so good I could cry. Maybe there’s also a little relief in the fact that Sawyer and I might end up being okay. I tried to push him away earlier this week when I was at my lowest, and I’m glad he didn’t take it personally. When we’re down to the last roll, he tears it in two and gives me half, our eyes lock, and things settle back into place.
So we didn’t end up getting pregnant on accident. It’ll be okay. Queenie’s right; there still might be babies in my future. For now, I have bigger issues.
Namely, nausea so intense I can’t leave my bathroom at Queenie’s house for most of the evening. It actually started when Sawyer was driving me to his place after our lunch. Once the warning signs started, I made up some lame excuse and rerouted us back to my mom’s so I could make a mad dash for the toilet.
It’s horrible. It feels like someone’s punched me in the stomach. Queenie’s been trying to get me to drink fluids, but I can’t keep anything down and the food she brings me smells so disgusting. Eventually, I feel like I have no choice but to check in on Sawyer, either to warn him of what’s to come (sorry, bud) or to see if he’s currently suffering as badly as I am.
Lying down on the cold tile, stripped down to my underwear and bra with sweat-matted hair, I shoot him a text. I’m not sure how to put it delicately.
Hey, are you feeling okay? That lunch isn’t sitting well with me…just wanted to see if you’re sick too?
Then I close my eyes and focus on the feel of the cold tile, breathing through my mouth to try to quell the persistent nausea. Fortunately, he texts back quickly.
Totally fine. You need anything? I can run by the store.
Oh dear god.
NO. Do not come here. I must have had a bad bite of chicken or something. Food poisoning. Blegh.
I groan and let my phone clatter to the ground. It’s better that he isn’t sick too. I’d feel bad. I can do this. I can hug this toilet like it’s a lifeline and make it through the night. If I lie perfectly still, without moving, my stomach almost settles.
I close my eyes and hover in limbo, then sometime later, there’s a soft knock on the bathroom door.
“Madison? Sweetie, Sawyer’s here,” my mom says gently.
I try to sit up, and my stomach protests. “No. God no. Send him away!”
“Too late,” says a masculine voice.
It’s him! He’s right outside the bathroom door.
I groan despairingly, but Queenie just chuckles lightly. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Besides, it’s good he’s here. I need to run to the store and grab you some more Gatorade. Sawyer will keep watch over you just in case.”
I don’t need a minder—I need a swift death.
I hear Queenie walk away down the hall and then the bathroom door creaks open. I can’t imagine what I look like to Sawyer, all splayed out on the ground, and I don’t have the energy to take stock of myself. I’m in survival mode, in the trenches.
I close my eyes as he approaches. I smell his body wash, feel his hands as he smooths my hair off my forehead. Still, I’m too embarrassed to look at him.