Page 11

11

Ziggy

I’d ask the universe why today’s the day that morning sickness has to make a resurgence, but I already know the answer to why.

I have to tell my parents about Abby Nora, and I don’t want to.

But instead of sucking it up and going to see them, I’m hunched over the toilet while Jessica whimpers beside me. My stomach has had it, and I’m paying the price.

“How am I supposed to tell them I don’t want to think about her ever again in my life?” I ask Jessica once I’ve given all I have to give to the porcelain gods.

I’m sweating and shaky and my stomach still hurts.

She grunt-snuffles and creeps closer, putting her big, broad head onto my leg.

“And do you know what’s making it worse?”

She grunt-snuffles again like she’s telling me to go on .

“I’m terrified to make more new friends because I’m afraid it’ll end and I’ll hurt all over again.”

Swear the dog grunts in agreement.

I stroke her head. “Your owner died. They still wanted you, I promise. And you have a good home here.”

She wags her cute little tail.

“That’s right. You know it, even when you’re drooling and throwing doggie snot on people.”

She grins at me.

I’d laugh at her unashamed confession that she does it on purpose, but I still feel too crappy.

So instead, I sigh and let my head drop back against the wall.

I could see myself being friends with Holt if I trusted myself to have friends.

The world looks different once people you love have torn you to pieces.

When they leave you with a bottomless hole in your heart that your family and a new baby and a dog can’t fill because they’re not shaped the same.

I’ve never felt so unsure of new people in my life.

Dogs, though—the dog, I trust.

“I like this house,” I tell Jessica. “But I think you’re the biggest reason I was supposed to be here. What do you think? Should we go see my parents? Will you be my emotional support while I tell them?”

She growls softly.

“They have a big yard and other dogs you can play with.”

That’s a stink eye if I’ve ever seen one.

“You like other dogs. I’ve seen you at the dog park.”

She barks and wags her tail.

My phone lights up with a message .

From Holt.

I don’t like the way his name on my screen makes my heart beat faster.

Holt: Stopping by to grab my meds .

That’s all it says. Normal housemate stuff. Like he was going to text me new phone, who dis?

He’s not the type.

But he’s apparently the type to make my pulse take off at a gallop because that’s exactly what happens when I hear the door open downstairs.

Unfortunately, that’s all it takes to make my stomach turn over the wrong way too.

I lunge for the toilet again.

Dammit .

Dammit dammit dammit .

And I don’t have anything left to give, which means I’m stuck here until I get out of the cycle of angry stomach battling with empty stomach.

I’m hovering over the toilet, breathing hard, when I hear the clomp…clomp…clomp of crutches that suggests Holt’s on his way up.

Jessica whines.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe through the roiling in my stomach that gets worse with every clomp of the crutches.

Who gave him a ride?

Why aren’t they coming up to get his suitcase?

Wait.

How did his suitcase get upstairs?

It didn’t .

The answer is that it didn’t .

I can clearly picture it just inside the door downstairs in the living room.

Which means?—

“Ziggy?”

“What?”

Nope.

Not going away.

He’s clomp-clomp-clomp ing into the bedroom.

My stomach heaves. My arms and legs are shaky and I’m sweating and I hope this is just morning sickness.

It is just morning sickness, isn’t it? “Please don’t come in here.”

He ignores me and angles himself and his crutches into the bathroom, then lifts a cloth grocery sack to set it on the counter. “Saltines and seltzer water.”

I whimper.

Jessica whimpers.

She doesn’t growl at him or fling imaginary poop at him either.

Not this time.

“Thank you,” I force out.

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he props himself against the sink so he can pull a sleeve of crackers out of the bag. Then he bends, holding both of his crutches in one hand and not letting his booted foot touch the ground, and puts the crackers closer to me on the floor.

Same with a bottle of seltzer water from his magic cloth bag.

Tears blur my vision.

This is what friends do .

They take care of each other.

I grab the bottle, but I can’t twist the cap.

I can’t twist the fucking cap.

He bends over again, this time without his crutches but still only on one leg, takes it, opens it, and hands it back to me.

Doesn’t say a word.

I don’t know if he’s looking at me, because I can’t bring myself to look at him.

If I look at him, I might see kindness, and if I see kindness, I might start believing he’s the good guy everyone insists he is, and if I believe he’s that good guy, I might decide we can be friends.

I can be friends with a guy with a chiseled jaw and a five o’clock shadow and hooded brown eyes and dark hair that’s still smushed funny from how he’s slept—or not slept—on it. I can be friends with a guy who’s injured and worried about his future.

I can keep it at just friends when he does things like bringing me saltines and seltzer water.

Stop it, Ziggy .

I take a sip, and my stomach starts to settle as soon as the first drop of seltzer water trickles down my throat.

“Thank you,” I whisper again.

“Little bit of experience.” His voice is gruff but soft. Like he doesn’t want to talk about it any more than I want to open up about every choice I’ve made in the past few months and how those choices have led me to being sick here today.

I don’t ask him more.

He doesn’t offer more.

But he does linger, leaning on his crutches while I take slow sips .

Jessica wags her tail slowly and watches me. Occasionally she snorts in Holt’s direction.

He rips open the cracker sleeve and hands that to me as well, which is when I realize I’ve been cradling my lower belly.

Subtly reminding myself that I want this. That I chose this. That the little pea-sized being wreaking havoc on my body is worth it. That I already love them with all of my heart.

I take another sip.

Holt’s phone audibly vibrates. He glances at the screen, then thumbs over it.

“You don’t have to stay here with me,” I force out. “I’ll be okay.”

“Only thing worse than feeling like shit is feeling like shit alone.”

“Jessica’s here. And I can call my sister. She’ll come over.”

Yes. I should call Miranda.

She’ll be a buffer when I tell my parents about Abby Nora.

“You sure?” Holt asks.

I nod.

Jessica tries to crawl into my lap.

He snorts softly. “Yeah, you’re clearly a terrible person who’s abusing her.”

His crutches clomp as he turns to head out of the bathroom.

And when he’s gone, the house feels emptier than it ever has.