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Eventually, I manage to drag my tired ass out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, where Sal and Stella are just sitting down in front of a big spread of food.
“Good morning, sweetie!” my mom greets, and Sal offers a friendly smile in my direction.
“I see you two have been busy.”
“Your mom has been busy,” Sal corrects with a smirk. “I, on the other hand, have simply been reading the newspaper.”
“I’m betting that’s only because she’s impossible to cook with,” I add, and he flashes a knowing smile in my direction.
Stella doesn’t acknowledge any of it, though. She’s too busy tossing pancakes onto a plate and sliding it over to me.
“Here you go, Car.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I don’t hesitate to dive right in, cutting into my pancakes and taking a big bite.
But three chews in, my stomach starts to rumble and grumble.
Ugh. Not again.
I try to ignore the nauseous sensation and keep chewing, but it’s not going well.
Just swallow it. I shut my eyes and mentally coach myself. You love pancakes. They’re so delicious, remember?
When I open my eyes again and see Sal dousing his pancakes with an insane amount of maple syrup, my stomach lets me know she isn’t fucking around.
Gag reflex activated, I drop my fork on my plate with a loud clank, hop up from my chair, and haul ass to Ryan’s and my master bathroom with my hand firmly covering my mouth to prevent a complete catastrophe.
I barely make it to the toilet before everything I just consumed exits my body.
Well, everything I just consumed and anything else my body can find inside there to toss out.
Gah. This is so gross. I hate puking.
Beads of sweat drip down my forehead, and my hands shake as I grip the edge of the toilet and try to get my body to chill out.
What on earth did Stella put in those pancakes? Arsenic?
The mere thought of the damn breakfast urges another wave of nausea, more gagging and more puking and even more sweat to accumulate on my forehead and neck and back.
By the time I’m finished, my mom is banging on the bathroom door, and my clothes are drenched like I just ran ten miles.
“Carly! Open up! Are you okay?” Stella is persistent, and I do my best to calm her down.
“I’m fine, Mom!” I call over my shoulder, my body still hanging over the toilet just in case. “Just feeling a little sick to my stomach.”
“Was it the pancakes?”
Oh no, don’t say that fucking word!
I swallow hard against a fresh wave of queasiness and shut my eyes, silently counting to fifty in my head just to give myself something else to focus on.
“Carly? Was it the pan—” my mom starts to ask again, but I quickly cut her off.
“It’s fine, Mom! I’m fine. Just give me a minute, and I’ll be out.”
“Are you sure? Do you want me to make something else?”
“Mom, relax. Just give me a little privacy, and I’ll be out,” I respond, firmer this time.
Goodness, I love that my mom and Sal are visiting Ryan and me in New York, but our apartment feels incredibly fucking small with Stella’s morning TikTok vids and her new tendency to hover around me like I’m some kind of injured bird.
Also, Sal snores like a motherfucker.
Not even kidding.
The past three nights they’ve been staying in our guest bedroom have wreaked havoc on my sleep.
Once I’m certain my stomach has settled, I stand up and head over to the sink where I wash my hands and face, and brush my teeth. And then, when I realize just how gross I feel, I take a quick shower and change into fresh clothes.
By the time I head out of our bedroom, I find Sal and Stella sitting on the balcony that faces Central Park and smooching on each other like a couple little lovebirds. The view of the park is distant—we’re not the Rockefellers, but it’s still pretty dang good.
I sigh and roll my eyes.
But also, I laugh to myself.
If there’s one thing that’s certain with these two, it’s that they keep the fire alive. Always flirting and touching each other, it’s so damn obvious how in love they are.
I can only hope Ryan and I will stay that way, too. Even when we’ve been married for thirty years and we’re old and cranky, I hope we’re still making out like teenagers.
The thought makes me smile, and I head into the kitchen to grab a few saltine crackers from the cabinet to help keep my stomach relaxed.
Before I reach the living room sofa to watch a little TV, my phone chimes from the kitchen counter, and I snag it to find a text from my fiancé.
My fiancé. Oh yes, Ryan Miller is my flipping fiancé.
The smile that follows damn near consumes my whole face.
