Daniel waited perhaps thirty seconds.
Then the smile disappeared.
He had made pasta.
The sauce smelled too rich.
I tried.
Three bites.
My stomach rolled.
I pushed the plate away.
Daniel stared at it.
“Seriously?”
“I can’t.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I was sick yesterday too.”
He stood.
“I spent forty minutes making dinner.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re always sorry.”
I tried to get up because nausea was rising too fast.
I didn’t make it to the bathroom.
I grabbed the trash can beside the kitchen island and bent over it.
That should have been the end of it.
Instead Daniel grabbed the back of my neck.
“Stop making everything dramatic.”
“Daniel—”
He shoved my head lower over the can.
“I’m tired of watching you perform every time someone asks you to do something normal.”
I tried to pull away.
My abdomen tightened.
Pain shot beneath the dressing.
