“You scared the crap out of me,” he says.
“I’m okay now.” I speak firmly, as if saying the words will make them true. Then I try to shift to my knees so that I can push myself all the way up to standing, but Damien holds me down.
“No, you don’t.” He holds me firmly in place. “Sit and rest until the ambulance gets here.”
I grimace at the thought of being examined here on Misty’s landscaped front lawn. “Honestly, it’s not like I got bit by a rattlesnake or suddenly came down with Ebola. I just got light-headed. It’s no big deal.”
“It is to me,” he says, and with those simple words, my argument dies on my tongue. I’m fine—I know that I’m fine—but Damien needs the reassurance, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to fully erase the fear from his eyes.
Unfortunately, after being poked and prodded and monitored by two efficient paramedics, we don’t have a definitive explanation for my fainting spell, and worry still lines Damien’s face.
The only upside is that they don’t insist that I go to the hospital, but they do want me to see my own doctor soon, as my blood pressure is low enough for concern.
Damien thanks them, then starts to type something out on his phone as I watch them pack up and return to the ambulance. They pass Misty, who has moved to the driveway and is talking with three curious neighbors and, probably, cursing the moment Damien and I darkened her doorstep.
“Do you want some juice?” Caroline asks. “I bet Misty has a cooler of juice boxes. Or I can run to the market.”
“No, really, it’s fine. But thank you. I think you’re right. I’m not used to the heat anymore.” This time when I start to get up, Damien helps me, his phone now back in his pocket. “I’ll go see my doctor when we get home just to be sure,” I add, certain that Damien just sent a text to his assistant, asking that she schedule that very appointment for the second we return to LA.
“Actually, we’re going now,” Damien says. “There’s a walk-in clinic just a few miles from here.”
I, however, am done being Invalid Nikki. “The hell we are. I’m standing. I’m walking. See?” I circle him to prove my point as Caroline graciously moves toward Misty, obviously wanting to avoid getting caught up in a marital power struggle. “I probably just need food and air conditioning. So let’s go get some lunch and then head back to the hotel so I can work on tomorrow’s presentation.”
“After the clinic. No—” he continues, cutting off my protest. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Dammit, I am. I was just light-headed. How many times do I have to say it?”
“You were out cold for a full minute, baby. You didn’t even stir when I carried you out here.”
“But I’m awake now.” I force myself to take a mental step back. To breathe. I don’t like doctors. I never have. My memories of doctors are tied up with my mother’s ploys to get me prescription appetite suppressants because “she’s such a pretty girl, but her hips and thighs have a tendency toward chubby,” or my own attempts to hide my self-inflicted scars, always fearing that some doctor would notice and insist I see a shrink.
“How about a compromise?” I suggest. “Hotel now, but if I start to feel dizzy, we’ll go to the clinic.”
For a moment, he says nothing, and I imagine the debate raging in his head. His desire to please me versus his concern and his need for answers. Finally, though, he nods. “All right, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, using my maiden name as a term of endearment. “It looks like we have a deal.”
I return the smile, feeling smug. Then I take a step toward Caroline and Misty, intending to say goodbye. And that’s when my smugness vanishes.
That’s when the nausea consumes me.
That’s when I bend forward in a sudden, unexpected spasm and vomit all over Misty’s pristinely manicured lawn.
4
“Considering I’m not sick, I’m certainly being pampered.” We’re back from the clinic Damien dragged me to, and now I’m curled up on our hotel suite’s overstuffed sofa, my feet in his lap. It’s barely past noon, but the curtains are closed, and the lamps are dim, and the ambience is making me sleepy. He chuckles, then squeezes my big toe. “Are you saying I shouldn’t be pampering my wife?”
“Actually, that was more of an ‘I told you so’ sort of comment.” I conjure a victorious grin. “The pampering is my reward for being right.”
He presses his thumbs against the bottom of my foot in a way that has me arching back and moaning with pleasure. “I’m always happy to reward you,” he assures me. “But your prognosis is still an open question.”
“I’m fine,” I insist because I refuse to believe that anything is wrong. “The doctor said what I said—everybody gets lightheaded sometimes.”
“And I get worried sometimes.” He stands, shifting my feet onto the cushion as he does. Then he sits again on the edge of the sofa right beside me, his palm on my cheek. Slowly, he leans in, then brushes a gentle kiss over my lips.
A soft tremor runs through me, and I curve my hand around the back of his neck, prepared to pull him down for a deeper, more enthusiastic kiss. “You don’t need to worry,” I whisper.
“I promise I’ll stop when he calls with the results of the blood work.”
I hesitate, my building desire warring with a lingering frustration, and I let my fingers fall away as I exhale sharply.
Damien sits up, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically. But my pleasant mood has disintegrated, and I continue, “I don’t like being under a microscope. But you’re determined to keep pushing it.” I shift to sit up, and in the process, give him a small shove. He looks at me with concern, his brow furrowed, and that only sparks my growing foul mood. “I just want to sit up,” I snap.
He stands. “By all means, sit however you like.”
I know I’m being bitchy, so I open my mouth to apologize, but that’s not what comes out. “You’re annoyed because of how I’m sitting?” My stomach twists unpleasantly. We fight—we’re married, of course, we fight—but usually there’s a reason. This one is all on me. I’m a mess, and I know it. My emotions have been all over the place today, and now something hard and hot is rising inside me, and it seems that I can’t control my temper, much less my words.
“I’m okay now.” I speak firmly, as if saying the words will make them true. Then I try to shift to my knees so that I can push myself all the way up to standing, but Damien holds me down.
“No, you don’t.” He holds me firmly in place. “Sit and rest until the ambulance gets here.”
I grimace at the thought of being examined here on Misty’s landscaped front lawn. “Honestly, it’s not like I got bit by a rattlesnake or suddenly came down with Ebola. I just got light-headed. It’s no big deal.”
“It is to me,” he says, and with those simple words, my argument dies on my tongue. I’m fine—I know that I’m fine—but Damien needs the reassurance, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to fully erase the fear from his eyes.
Unfortunately, after being poked and prodded and monitored by two efficient paramedics, we don’t have a definitive explanation for my fainting spell, and worry still lines Damien’s face.
The only upside is that they don’t insist that I go to the hospital, but they do want me to see my own doctor soon, as my blood pressure is low enough for concern.
Damien thanks them, then starts to type something out on his phone as I watch them pack up and return to the ambulance. They pass Misty, who has moved to the driveway and is talking with three curious neighbors and, probably, cursing the moment Damien and I darkened her doorstep.
“Do you want some juice?” Caroline asks. “I bet Misty has a cooler of juice boxes. Or I can run to the market.”
“No, really, it’s fine. But thank you. I think you’re right. I’m not used to the heat anymore.” This time when I start to get up, Damien helps me, his phone now back in his pocket. “I’ll go see my doctor when we get home just to be sure,” I add, certain that Damien just sent a text to his assistant, asking that she schedule that very appointment for the second we return to LA.
“Actually, we’re going now,” Damien says. “There’s a walk-in clinic just a few miles from here.”
I, however, am done being Invalid Nikki. “The hell we are. I’m standing. I’m walking. See?” I circle him to prove my point as Caroline graciously moves toward Misty, obviously wanting to avoid getting caught up in a marital power struggle. “I probably just need food and air conditioning. So let’s go get some lunch and then head back to the hotel so I can work on tomorrow’s presentation.”
“After the clinic. No—” he continues, cutting off my protest. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Dammit, I am. I was just light-headed. How many times do I have to say it?”
“You were out cold for a full minute, baby. You didn’t even stir when I carried you out here.”
“But I’m awake now.” I force myself to take a mental step back. To breathe. I don’t like doctors. I never have. My memories of doctors are tied up with my mother’s ploys to get me prescription appetite suppressants because “she’s such a pretty girl, but her hips and thighs have a tendency toward chubby,” or my own attempts to hide my self-inflicted scars, always fearing that some doctor would notice and insist I see a shrink.
“How about a compromise?” I suggest. “Hotel now, but if I start to feel dizzy, we’ll go to the clinic.”
For a moment, he says nothing, and I imagine the debate raging in his head. His desire to please me versus his concern and his need for answers. Finally, though, he nods. “All right, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, using my maiden name as a term of endearment. “It looks like we have a deal.”
I return the smile, feeling smug. Then I take a step toward Caroline and Misty, intending to say goodbye. And that’s when my smugness vanishes.
That’s when the nausea consumes me.
That’s when I bend forward in a sudden, unexpected spasm and vomit all over Misty’s pristinely manicured lawn.
4
“Considering I’m not sick, I’m certainly being pampered.” We’re back from the clinic Damien dragged me to, and now I’m curled up on our hotel suite’s overstuffed sofa, my feet in his lap. It’s barely past noon, but the curtains are closed, and the lamps are dim, and the ambience is making me sleepy. He chuckles, then squeezes my big toe. “Are you saying I shouldn’t be pampering my wife?”
“Actually, that was more of an ‘I told you so’ sort of comment.” I conjure a victorious grin. “The pampering is my reward for being right.”
He presses his thumbs against the bottom of my foot in a way that has me arching back and moaning with pleasure. “I’m always happy to reward you,” he assures me. “But your prognosis is still an open question.”
“I’m fine,” I insist because I refuse to believe that anything is wrong. “The doctor said what I said—everybody gets lightheaded sometimes.”
“And I get worried sometimes.” He stands, shifting my feet onto the cushion as he does. Then he sits again on the edge of the sofa right beside me, his palm on my cheek. Slowly, he leans in, then brushes a gentle kiss over my lips.
A soft tremor runs through me, and I curve my hand around the back of his neck, prepared to pull him down for a deeper, more enthusiastic kiss. “You don’t need to worry,” I whisper.
“I promise I’ll stop when he calls with the results of the blood work.”
I hesitate, my building desire warring with a lingering frustration, and I let my fingers fall away as I exhale sharply.
Damien sits up, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically. But my pleasant mood has disintegrated, and I continue, “I don’t like being under a microscope. But you’re determined to keep pushing it.” I shift to sit up, and in the process, give him a small shove. He looks at me with concern, his brow furrowed, and that only sparks my growing foul mood. “I just want to sit up,” I snap.
He stands. “By all means, sit however you like.”
I know I’m being bitchy, so I open my mouth to apologize, but that’s not what comes out. “You’re annoyed because of how I’m sitting?” My stomach twists unpleasantly. We fight—we’re married, of course, we fight—but usually there’s a reason. This one is all on me. I’m a mess, and I know it. My emotions have been all over the place today, and now something hard and hot is rising inside me, and it seems that I can’t control my temper, much less my words.
