Page 46 of Accidental Groom

I climb the stairs two at a time.

Around the corner, the upstairs bathroom door is ajar, and before I can question the silence, it breaks.

Not a sound, not a scream, notquitea sob.

A retch.

I’m inside in an instant.

Elena sits on her knees, her calf-length flowery dress bunched around her thighs. One hand is braced on the tile, the other shaking as she smears her lipstick, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. Her breathing is too fast, her spine twitching her body forward in little jerks like it's trying to make her throw up again.

Geraldine used to?—

I shut it down before it can form a full thought. “Elena,” I say warily.

She startles, just a little, but it's enough that her hand slips from under her. I lunge, one hand splaying out between her shoulder blades, taking the weight of her upper body before she can hit the floor.

“Christ,” I mutter, easing her into a seated position beside the toilet, her back against the tub. Her skin is clammy, a sheen of sweat coating her arms and chest and upper back, and I gently move the little bits of her dark blonde hair stuck to her face behind her ears instead. “Breathe, Elena.”

She twitches like she’s going to heave again, but she forces a shaky breath in, her eyes closing on the exhale.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

She shakes her head, gesturing weakly toward the bedroom.

“Left your phone in there?”

She nods.

“Okay,” I say softly, pushing down the rising discomfort of seeing her like this. It’s too similar. Memories threaten to surface and flood my mind, images of Geraldine bent over a toilet bowl or broken on the shower floor, sweaty or soaked andclutching at her stomach like it was trying to eat her whole.Stop. Stop. Stop.My thumb brushes against her pulse point instinctually, feeling the rapid fluttering beneath it.“You’re okay.”

Her eyes flutter open. “I’m—” she gasps, dragging in air, willing herself to calm the half-heaves. “It’s just a bug, I think. Or maybe something I ate.”

Her eyes are glassy, her pupils blown, but her voice is mostly steady from sheer stubbornness. But she looks like hell. Her skin is pale, her makeup smeared. I press the back of my hand to her forehead, and she flinches — but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t bat at me.

That alone is enough to make me worried more than the lack of a fever.

“How long have you been throwing up?”

She shakes her head, forcing a swallow. “Don’t know,” she murmurs. “Felt nauseous all morning, but thought it would pass. Maybe started around eleven?”

My lips form a straight line. “Right, okay,” I sigh, stroking the side of her neck gently with my thumb. “What have you eaten?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I had some crackers last night, tea this morning,” she says. She winces, just slightly, as another heave threatens to come all the way up. “It’s all just… bile.”

I open my mouth to reply, but her eyes go wide, and then she’s scrambling again — back up on her knees, nearly slipping on the tile as she throws herself back over the toilet. I turn my head, slamming my eyes shut, forcing myself not to watch, not to replace her with a head of dark curls and frail frame, not to compare.

Instead, I steady her, my hand dragging up and down her back.

“I’m calling Frasier,” I murmur, shoving my hand in my pocket as she spills her guts into the toilet again. She doesn’t ask me who that is, doesn’t fight me on anything — just clings to the bowl like her life depends on it.

I shoot a text to Paul first, telling him lunch is off the table and we’ll reschedule, before tucking my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I let her slump into my chest the moment she’s no longer spewing.

She speaks as the phone rings. “You don’t have to be here. I’m disgusting?—”

“You’re not,” I cut in. “You’re sick. Massive difference.”

Dr. Frasier finally picks up, his tone more annoyed than anything, and promises to be here within the hour. I try not to let the next sixty minutes weigh on me like a stone.