Page 78 of The Husband I Left

“I know you think you do,” he says. “But you’ve obviously had a few drinks tonight, and I—”

“I know what I’m saying.” I look up at him with what I hope is a convincing expression. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for—”

And then my stomach rebels, and I turn my head and throw up all over Oliver’s coffee table.

There is a very long silence.

“—weeks,” I finish weakly into the terrible quiet.

Chapter 28

Genny

I wake up slowly, which is a mercy. Light filters through the blinds in my bedroom, thin and pale. My mouth tastes like something died in it. My body feels like it’s been run over by a semi, backed up, and run over again for good measure.

I groan and pull the blanket over my head.

The memories come in fragments, disjointed and mortifying. Oliver’s apartment. Waking Oliver up. The crying. The throwing up. God, the throwing up. On his coffee table. I threw up on Oliver Sinclair’s coffee table. I told him I wanted to kiss him, and then I decorated his furniture with the contents of my stomach. It’s the kind of humiliation that sticks with you for years and pops up in the small hours, just as you’re about to fall asleep.

Remember that time you cried all over your ex-husband, tried to kiss him, and then threw up on his table?

I’ll probably be remembering it on my deathbed, knowing me.

We’d both assumed it was the alcohol. Oliver had been kind about it, which somehow made it worse. He’d half-led, half-carried me across the hall to my own apartment while I’d cried and slurred apologies and promises to buy him a new coffee table.

“Genny, really, that’s not necessary. It’s fine,” he’d repeatedly told me, which only made me cry harder.

He’d deposited me in my apartment and assured me he’d clean up both the vomit and the food mess in the hallway. I’d changed into sweats and a t-shirt when I heard him moving around in the hallway, presumably cleaning up the food I’d dumped on the floor. I’d opened my door to apologize one more time, only for my stomach to choose that moment to rebel again, and I had to clasp a hand to my mouth and sprint to the bathroom, leaving my door hanging wide open. Oliver had followed and stayed with me, holding my hair back, his voice steady and calm while I apologized over and over between heaves. Afterwards, he helped me rinse out my mouth and helped me into bed, with firm orders to stay there unless I had to throw up again. I’d passed out, praying for death or amnesia, whichever came first.

Death declined the invitation. So did amnesia.

The next morning, I’d woken up and immediately thrown up again. And again. And then a third time for good measure. By noon, it was clear this wasn’t a hangover. This was something far more sinister: a stomach virus straight from the depths of hell, sent specifically to punish me for my sins.

Oliver had stopped by that morning to check on me. I’d answered the door looking like something the cat had thrown up, and he’d taken one look at me and disappeared. Twenty minutes later, he was back with Gatorade and saltines.

“You need to stay hydrated,” he told me. “And the crackers, eat them one at a time. Very slowly.”

I’d wanted to tell him to go away. I’d wanted to tell him I didn’t need his help, that I was perfectly capable of being miserably ill on my own, thank you very much. But my stomach had chosen that moment to make a sound like a dying whale, and all that came out was a weak “Thanks.”

He kept coming back. With more Gatorade. With chicken soup from the deli down the street. With those electrolyte ice pops that taste like artificial blue raspberry and somehow make you feel marginally more human. Each time, I thanked him and then immediately spent the next hour trying very, very hard not to find it too sweet.

I push the blanket off and sit up slowly, testing. My head throbs, but it’s dull and manageable. My stomach no longer feels like death. I’m wearing the same sweatpants and t-shirt I’ve been wearing for approximately forty-eight hours. They smell. I smell. Everything smells.

“Okay,” I say to the empty room. “Shower later. Aspirin now.”

The bathroom is three steps from my bed. I shuffle there and pop a couple of aspirin. Back in the kitchen, I fill the kettle and push the button to start it. I’m not brave enough to attempt coffee right now. Tea. Tea feels safe. Tea has never betrayed me.

While the water heats, I lean against the counter and take stock. My apartment is a disaster zone. Empty Gatorade bottles litter the coffee table and counters. It stinks. The clothes I wore Friday night are still lying on the living room floor. A half-eaten electrolyte pop has melted into a puddle on a paper towel. If my mother walked in right now, she’d have a heart attack.

The kettle bubbles, and I pour the water over a tea bag and watch the color bloom. I carry the mug to the table and sit down. The tea is too hot, but I sip it anyway, letting the warmth spread through my chest.

One sip. Two. My stomach accepts it without complaint. Progress.

I’m just contemplating whether I’m brave enough to attempt actual food when there’s a knock at the door. I consider not answering. I consider pretending I’m asleep, or dead, or both. But I’ve already cried all over Oliver and vomited on his furniture this weekend. He’s seen me at my worst. What does it matter that I still look and smell like death warmed over?

When I open the door, Oliver is standing in the hallway wearing jeans and a blue henley, and he looks unfairly handsome and healthy and well rested.

“Hey,” he says. His eyes scan my face, cataloging it . “You look better.”