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)
“Hey, champ.”
His voice is so soft I melt.
“I stink.”
“Nah.”
He sounds so convincing I almost believe him. Then he bends to scoop me up off the tile.
“I might be sick again,” I warn, but he ignores me, cradling me against his chest as he toes open the door to my childhood bedroom.
“Pink, cute. And are those Harry Potter sheets?”
I peek through my eyelids and venture a quick glance up. He’s looking at me, warm and tender and loving. I wonder what kind of dad he would have been.
The thought strikes me so deeply I could cry. I’m short on liquids at the moment though, so fortunately, I only get choked up a bit.
He tugs back the blankets and lays me down. While I settle, he heads to the kitchen and returns with a cold, damp towel that he lays across my forehead. I shiver at first, but it feels nice. My eyes drift closed again. I’m so tired I’m not sure how long I’ll last now that I’m in my bed.
I’m already starting to slip away when Sawyer asks, “Are you sure this is food poisoning?”
“Hmm,” I ask sleepily. “What else would it be?”
There’s a long pause and then, “I don’t know. Forget it. Sleep. I’ll be here.”
CHAPTER 19
I’ve never had food poisoning quite like this: the lingering kind, the strike you at any moment kind, the kind that comes with food aversions and exhaustion. It’s baffling. I might never eat barbecue ever again. The thought of potato salad makes me audibly gag. If someone so much as mentions brisket to me, it’s game over. It’s been two weeks since Sawyer and I met for that fated lunch, and shockingly, I’m still not back to rights.
I stayed home, recuperating at Queenie’s for a few days and resting as much as possible, but since then, I’ve returned to work because otherwise I’ll die of boredom. There are only so many Today show segments one person can watch without losing the will to live.
If a sudden bout of nausea strikes while I’m at work, I hole myself up in the Wildflower Weddings bathroom, Dream big!-ing my way through it. If Queenie’s lunchtime tuna melt turns my stomach, I take some deep cleansing breaths. And when that doesn’t work, I make her take it outside.
“Can someone bring me my chips!?”
I know everyone’s worried about me. I see the glances Marge and Queenie exchange when they think I’m not looking. Even Sawyer’s been suggesting I see a doctor. At first, I resisted only because I didn’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill, but this illness has worn me down. Yesterday, a bride came in wearing a floral perfume so cloying I had to run to the bathroom. I can’t keep trying to breathe through the nausea; it’s not working.
It’s why I’m sitting in this exam room with Sawyer on a bright, cheery Monday morning. He insisted on coming with me, just like he’s insisted on being by my side these last two weeks, keeping crackers and Gatorade on hand for the short windows of opportunity where I’m willing to try to eat something. We’ve been binge-watching shows at his place, and a few nights ago, I fell asleep on his couch and stayed the night. Since then, it’s just assumed that’s the plan from here on out, us spending every waking moment together.
I now have a designated Starlight Vineyards t-shirt I wear to sleep. His dark blue coffee cup—the one with the chip and the silly Buc-ee’s logo—is mine; Sawyer knows better than to grab it in the mornings. He drops me off at work and comes to scoop me up in the evenings. If I happen to be in the mood for actual food, we order it to-go and share it side by side on his couch. Random bouts of nausea aside, it’s been a really nice two weeks together. I’m absolutely crazy about him. Even now, I’m sneaking glances his way as he scrolls through emails on his phone. It’s insane that his jawline really looks like that. So sharp, so perfectly chiseled. And don’t get me started on the rest of him…
Knock-knock.
The exam room door swings open and an older female doctor walks in, accompanied by her medical assistant. Dr. Lopez is everyone’s favorite general practitioner and one of Queenie’s friends. Petite with red lipstick and a bouffant hairdo, she’s just the person I want to see; I know she’ll fix me right up.
“Good to see you, Madison. Sawyer, how’s your grandma?”
“Oh Lolly’s great,” he says, pocketing his phone. “No one can keep up with her around the vineyard.”
Dr. Lopez laughs as she finishes washing her hands, then she accepts the outstretched laptop from her medical assistant and launches into a line of questions for me. We start with the fated barbecue lunch and the symptoms that followed, but it’s not long before she deviates from that day.