Page 105 of Toxic Kiss

“I’m calling Dr. Stevens. He said to call if there were any changes.”

I grab her wrist. “No. Please. No doctors. No more, I can’t, not today.”

Haven locks eyes with me and sighs.

“Fine, but if this doesn’t ease up or if it gets worse, then I’m calling, and nothing you say will stop me.”

“Deal,” I groan.

I try to swing my legs over the side of the bed, but nausea punches me straight in the gut. She catches me before I hit the floor, arms around me like a safety net I haven’t earned.

“You’re shaking, Cy.”

“I always shake. Gonna be sick.”

Haven helps me stand and shuffle into the bathroom. I collapse at the toilet and throw up everything and nothing. She flushes and rubs my back as tears sting my eyes.

I hand her an envelope of disaster, and she helps me stand. The balance in our dynamic is so off.

Haven flushes the toilet again after I fall to the side and sit with my back against the cool tile. My breathing is heavy, and my muscles are so weak that they don’t feel like part of my body, more like weights tied to my limbs.

She grabs my toothbrush and hands it to me with a glass of water. I do what I can with my limited coordination, rinsing and spitting in the same cup. They disappear again, and I close my eyes.

“Do you want to go back out to the bedroom?”

I slowly roll my head against the wall from side to side.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Pain meds.”

She’s back faster than I can take my next breath with the pills and water. I grab the bottle, pop the top, and dump two into my hand. Before she can object, I toss them in my mouth and swallow them dry.

Haven’s eyes narrow.

“Cy, it’s one pill, twice a day.”

“I need the two, trust me,” I say.

“You’re going to kill me with stress,” she says, rubbing her eyes.

I smirk. “At least you still care.”

She glares at me.

“I shouldn’t.”

“No. You shouldn’t.”

It’s all I can say. Haven sits beside me, her warmth seeps into me, and I sigh, needing this. Needing her.

We stay here until the pain eases and the nausea becomes bearable. The throbbing in my head turns into a dull roar.

“Can you help me up? I need to get ready.”

“You sure? We can cancel rehearsal.”

“And give everyone an excuse to say I’m a loser again? Not a chance.”