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I’m always amazed the destruction that dehydration can cause to the human body and how the simple act of hydration can spur what feels like a miraculous change. Like, maybe if I read that book by Ann Rule about Ted Bundy, I’d find out he wasn’t really meant to be a serial killer at all. Maybe he was just really dehydrated and not good at keeping up with his water intake.
The camper is quiet save the sounds of my gulping, and I start to worry for Brooke’s whereabouts.
“Brooke, are you here?” I call stupidly, smacking myself in the forehead just after I do. If she’s not been promptly found already, she’s probably not going to pop out at the sound of my voice. This place is two hundred square feet, tops.
Instead of devolving into mania at the absence of her, I try really hard to make my brain do the thing it was designed to do again—think.
It takes some concentration, but the clock on the microwave tells me the time and a little hard analysis confirms that her schedule would put her at her appearance in downtown San Antonio. Honestly, she’s probably wrapping it up by now, if she’s not done already.
I start searching for my phone and eventually find it on the nightstand in the bedroom—along with all the other normal contents of my pockets—and I pick it up to find two texts from Brooke that came in about four hours ago.
Brooke: You looked like you were finally resting this morning, so I left you to it. I’m doing the whole famous girl thing, you know, but I’ll see you—a commoner—when I get back.
Brooke: But text or call if you need anything. I mean it! If I find out you needed something but didn’t call me, I’ll force you to listen to forty-eight hours of Dolly Parton during our next long drive. No breaks. Just you, me, and Dolly 9 to 5’in the whole way.
She never ceases to make me laugh. Even last night, when I felt like I was dying, I have the vaguest memory of her hitting joke after joke and making me smile through the pain and nausea.
You also remember her giving you a soft kiss on the lips as she was tucking you in to her bed…
That insane thought pulls me up short. I wasn’t exactly lucid last night, so I have a feeling the whole kiss thing was a fever dream.
I mean, there’s no way that could’ve happened, right?
Fuck, I don’t know. I scrub at my face and refocus on getting myself back to one hundred percent. I don’t need to think about any kind of kisses with Brooke before I’ve had a nice shower and a brush of my teeth, at the very least. I’m nasty from the fever sweat, and I can taste just the tinge of vomit in my mouth, which kind of makes me want to yack all over again.
I can’t remember if I actually got sick last night, but I hope to God I didn’t put my star author in the position to clean it up for me.
That’s not exactly the kind of talent coddling Jonah is about at Longstrand Publishing. Now, me cleaning up an author’s vomit? He’d be all for.
In fact, I’m pretty sure Frank Bowman tells a story about having done it before.
Quickly, I gather some clean clothes from my bag in one of the kitchen cabinets and head for the shower. As soon as Brooke gets back, it’ll be time to drive.
Destination this time: Viva Las Vegas.
Something tells me I’d better hold on to my hat for what’s to come in Sin City.
Brooke
My interview with Good Day, San Antonio! went swimmingly.
I faked my way through being a professional, capable woman who can speak in full sentences and didn’t make a single thing awkward for Debbie Digger, the host.
Which, I can’t deny, with a name like Debbie Digger, it’s like she was born to be a news anchor. Or a porn star, if I’m being honest, but clearly, she’s made her choice.
Still, though, once my spot on the show was done, I declined an invitation to join a few of the staff for an early lunch of wine and apps and headed straight for the motor home. The mere idea of drinking booze and eating potato skins while Chase is under the weather felt wrong on all accounts.
Truth be told, I’m still feeling like a mother hen when it comes to him.
I’ve checked my phone no fewer than six hundred times to see if he’s texted me with an update on his status, but since I’ve received nothing in response, I’m on edge.
Even Benji can tell. His head has been in my lap, my own personal weighted anxiety blanket, for the whole drive back to the campground.
