Page 210 of Show Me

My world has narrowed down to the couch, the guest room at my dad’s house, and whatever food doesn’t make me nauseous, which turns out to be a surprisingly short list.

The concussion symptoms haven’t fully eased yet. Neither has the pregnancy nausea. Together? They’re a nightmare.

Too much light makes my head pound. Too much movement makes my stomach roll. Too much noise makes me want to crawl under a blanket and stay there forever.

So that’s mostly what I’ve done. Rest. Sleep. Research. Rinse. Repeat.

Dad has given up pretending he’s not hovering. This morning alone he has checked my pupils twice, made me eat toast, reminded me to drink water four separate times, and threatened to take my phone away when he caught me reading pregnancy forums at two in the morning.

Which, honestly, is fair.

I sit curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket over my legs while Squirt sleeps beside the fireplace, sprawled on his side like a tiny pig-shaped piece of furnace. Bella brought him out for me the day after the accident.

It wasn’t an accident. My nose wrinkles. It was assault. She brought him out to me the day after I was assaulted.

The house smells faintly like coffee and wood smoke. Outside, rain taps against the windows.

Dad walks through the living room carrying another mug of tea. “You’re squinting again.”

“The light’s too bright.”

“It’s raining.”

I glare at him. “Don’t use logic against me.”

“Hmm.” He sets the mug down on the coffee table. “Doctor also said less screen time.”

“I’m reading.”

“You’re doom spiraling.”

“That’s different.”

Dad grunts under his breath and disappears back toward the kitchen. I look back down at my phone. Seven weeks. Maybe eight. Apparently, fatigue is normal. Nausea is normal. Heightened smell is normal. Wanting to cry because toast smells weird. Also, apparently normal.

I haven’t fully wrapped my head around any of it. Every once in a while, my hand drifts toward my stomach without thinking. Instinctive. Protective. Terrifying.

A text notification lights up my phone.

Bella: You alive?

Me: Barely.

Bella: You eat today?

The messages pop back and forth as if we’re sitting face-to-face rather than miles away from each other.

Me: Toast. Crackers. Regret.

A typing bubble appears.

Bella: Emily says that’s progress.

I smile faintly. Then another message appears.

Bella: Also… Xavier asked Jake about you again.

The smile disappears instantly. My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with morning sickness. I stare at the message for several long seconds before typing back.