“I manage,” I say, keeping my tone even.
“You could always come back here,” she continues, returning to a conversation we’ve had a hundred times before. “There’s no reason for you to be out there on your own, running yourself into the ground, when you have a perfectly good home.”
I press my lips together and cut into the chicken a little more firmly than necessary.
“I like being on my own.”
“You think you do,” she corrects gently. “But independence isn’t the same as stability. One day, you’ll want something more solid.”
By solid she means predictable and acceptable.
An averagely good-looking man, with an average personality, who can give me an average amount of love and affection. Too good-looking would be too showy. Too extroverted would be a showoff. Being too into me would be weakness or obsession.
I don’t answer. Instead, I focus on my plate, though my appetite is nowhere to be found. The smell of the food, which should be delicious and comforting, suddenly feels too rich, and too heavy, turning strangely in my stomach.
I set my fork down.
“Not hungry?” my dad asks.
I reach for my water instead. “I had a late breakfast.”
My mother’s gaze follows the movement of my hand, narrowing slightly.
“You’ve barely touched your food.”
“I told you. Late breakfast.”
“Before you came to lunch? I’ve been slaving over this meal for hours.”
I force a small smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice the time.”
She doesn’t return it.
For a moment, silence settles over the table. It isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t quite tense either. It’s simply there, pressing in around the clink of silverware and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
I take another sip of water, hoping it will settle whatever is happening in my belly.
It doesn’t.
If anything, the unease sharpens, curling low and unfamiliar. I shift in my seat and press my thighs together without thinking, but the small movement catches my attention. A thought flickers at the edge of my mind,insignificant at first, then suddenly impossible to ignore.
No. It can’t be.
My grip tightens around the glass. Saliva wells in my mouth. Standing quickly, I bolt from the table, into the bathroom downstairs, and have barely enough time to flick the bolt before I heave over the toilet. My belly contracts over and over as I’m sick, and then sick again. My forehead beads with sweat as I drop to the floor and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Maybe I ate something bad. But all I had yesterday was toast, a pretzel, and a bag of chips. I hadn’t felt like eating much that wasn’t dry and salty.
Maybe it’s a bug. That wouldn’t be out of the question. I work with sick animals all day, every day, and meet lots of people. It’s easy to pick up viruses.
But when my stomach roils again, and I cup it with my hand, it seems rounder than usual.
No.
I frown, trying to chase the thought back into the shadows, but it slips out of reach before settling fully into place.
It can’t be.
I blink, and my pulse picks up. I’m on the pill, and I haven’t messed up with taking it.
It can’t be.
