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“I’m going to be sick,” I whisper.

Scrambling back from the table, I get the fuck away from everyone and the food that’s driven me to this point. Jogging out of the room, I slap a hand to my mouth and dive into the closest bathroom.

My knees slam against the floor so hard pain splinters up my legs as I flip the toilet lid and heave the contents of my stomach. It’s one of my most embarrassing moments, and I couldn’t even get up to shut the door if I tried.

Nose burning, I manage to drape my hair behind my shoulders. I’m going up in flames as I continue throwing up, my body hunched over the toilet.

“Oh, Frosty.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and lean my forehead on my arm, hoping I’ve just made her up and that she isn’t actually here to see this.

“Here,” her gentle voice chimes.

Shivers zip up and down my body when my hair is pulled back with careful fingers and an elastic is wrapped around it.

“I knew you weren’t okay, but I didn’t know you were sick like this. We wouldn’t have come here if I had, sweetheart.”

A very real, very non-imaginable hand sweeps up and down my back, even as I hurl again, sweat clinging to my face and neck.

“My parents aren’t here,” I mumble.

“No, they’re not.”

So no nicknames, I almost say. Should plead. Especially not one like sweetheart.

“I didn’t feel sick earlier.”

She keeps stroking my back in slow, comforting circles. “Good. I wouldn’t have wanted to make you feel worse just to come here of all places.”

“It was the fish.”

“Just the fish? You feel really warm, Bryce.”

I hum, my throat raw and sore as I close my eyes. “I don’t get sick.”

“Nobody is exempt from getting sick. Not even stubborn women,” she teases.

With weak arms, I push myself back enough to flush the toilet but don’t look at her. I’m a fucking mess right now. And despite throwing up everything I’ve eaten in the last fucking week, I don’t feel any better.

I’m sluggish and dizzy, like I’ve run a marathon on an empty stomach. My muscles feel like jelly, making it near impossible to keep myself upright as I collapse against the toilet, my ears ringing.

“Mr. Lemieux!”

I stop fighting the pull of sleep and close my eyes. Just for a second.

When I open them again, I’m not in the bathroom.

A searing pain lashes through my head, the focal pointbehind my eyes telling me it’s a migraine. My stomach is sensitive, clinching as I shift on a . . . bed? There’s a pillow beneath my head that smells like the essential oils my mother drenches the house in.

With a cough to clear my throat, I attempt to open my eyes. It hurts like a bitch, and the throb behind them pushes harder, forcing me to squeeze them shut with a groan.

“Bryce? What’s wrong?”

“You’re still here?” I scrape the question up my throat, hating how weak I sound.

The bed shifts, and I flinch when a cool cloth is placed on my forehead. Warm breath puffs across my cheek.

“Of course I am. I’m not leaving you here alone, and there was no way I was risking waking you up to go home,” she says sternly.