Page 49 of Restoration
He wants to know who I dated (not a lot) and what my most long-term boyfriend was like. He teases me because that guy was a lot like me. He says I need someone different who can bring out different layers in me and not let me always hide behind my ultra-competence. I need someone who makes sure I enjoy life as much as conquer it.
That’s what he says in his normal light, clever tone. I can’t help but wonder if he might be referring to himself, and the idea sends my heart into wild flutters. My stomach is kind of rumbly too.
After a while, we fall into silence. When I glance over, Edmund has gone to sleep, so I close my eyes, settle my flutters, and eventually drift off too.
I wake up with a surge of sick panic.
I sit up, gasping for air and sweating with consecutive waves of heat and cold.
“Y’okay?” Edmund mumbles, shifting on the blanket beside me. He’s barely awake.
And I’m currently afraid that I’m dying.
I’m not dying. My stomach heaves, making it clear exactly what’s happening to me. I scramble to my feet but only have time to make it three or four steps toward the trees before my stomach heaves again.
This time it’s followed by projectile vomiting that propels me to my hands and knees. It’s horrible. Painful. My stomach empties by the third retch, and then it’s mostly dry heaves that wrack my body.
“Fuck, Autumn,” Edmund says from behind me, his voice getting closer as he speaks. “Oh fuck.”
My hair is still secured in the one braid I’ve been wearing regularly, but he kneels beside me to pull back loose strands that have slipped out over the course of the day.
He obviously wants to help, but at the moment there’s nothing to be done but live through it.
When my stomach finally settles, I risk straightening up so I’m sitting on my knees. Tears and snot are running down my face, and my mouth tastes as bad as I can ever remember.
Edmund gets up to grab one of the old, thin towels we found on the sailboat. He gets one corner wet and brings it over to wipe down my face gently. “Do you feel any better?”
“I think... I think so.” I keep taking long, slow breaths, willing my stomach to stay steady.
“I guess it’s probably something you ate. Although I’m not sure why you’re sick and I’m—”
He doesn’t have a chance to finish his thought because I’m hit with another wave of panic. Then I’m on my hands and knees, vomiting on the sand again.
Hardly anything comes up this time. I have no idea what my body keeps imagining it’s purging by these violent heaves. I’m shaking and drenched in sweat when it’s finally over.
But something worse is starting to happen. I’m experiencing a painful cramping—low, below my belly.
“Shit, this is terrible,” Edmund says, trying to wipe my face again. His features are tight and deeply sympathetic. “Do you think it’s over?”
“No,” I mumble, crossing my arms over my abdomen and leaning over as the cramping continues. “Oh God, no.”
I start to scramble to my feet as I realize what’s about to happen.
“What’s going on?” Edmund asks, getting up too and holding on to my shoulder when I turn away from him. “What do you need?”
“It’s not over,” I whimper. I gasp and lean over awkwardly at the sharp pain of the intestinal spasms. “Oh God, I need to get out of here.”
“No, you don’t. You’ve already thrown up—”
“It’s not throwing up,” I manage to choke out before I pull away from his hand and run for my bathroom tree.
This is so much worse. No toilet. No paper. No comfortable way to position my body. I do the best I can until it’s over. Thankfully, Edmund must have realized what’s going on and is giving me some privacy.
When I’m finally able to pull my shorts back up, I’m shivering and barely able to walk.
Edmund comes to put an arm around me as soon as I move past the tree. He was obviously waiting for me.
“Come on,” he says. “You need to lie down. Do you think you got everything out?”