Beautiful Tragedy (A Standalone Romance Novel) by Alycia Taylor Page B

laying it on thick?” I asked with a laugh.
    I put the plates in the sink and reached into the
freezer to get the desserts. “I can’t really eat dairy,” she said. I guess she
thought I was reaching for Jake’s box of Dreyer’s.
    “Me neither,” I told her. “It’s lemon sorbet with
crushed raspberries. Is that okay?” She grinned and said, “Bring it on.” We ate
our dessert and watched the movie. I suddenly couldn’t believe my ears as I
heard my own voice announce out loud that this was Adam Sandler’s “ chicky -est” movie. When did my brain give my mouth permission
to speak?
    “ Chicky -est?” she said with
a grin.
    “I’m sure you would have gone with a better adjective,
perhaps?” I said, smiling back at her.
    “I’m sure anything I went with would have been a
better adjective,” she said.
    “Are you sure you’re not an English major?” I asked
her.
    “Yes,” she said, “but I’m not sure why.” That made me
laugh until I felt that old familiar rise of nausea from my stomach, to my
esophagus and into my cheeks. Damn it!
    I excused myself and headed down the hall to the
bathroom. Sometimes I puke once and it’s over, and other times I literally
can’t get away from a toilet, or a bucket. Please God, I prayed as I walked
down the hall. Let tonight be the former.
    I went inside the bathroom and as I closed the door I
leaned up against it and took some deep breaths. Sometimes if I slowed my
breathing, and didn’t allow myself to get too anxious, I could make it go away
before it even really started. As I took my third breath, I could feel the
vomit in the back of my throat and I knew that tonight wasn’t going to be one
of those nights. I quickly pulled up the toilet seat and bent over it. Within a
few seconds, the entire beautiful meal that Molly and I had cooked and ate
together was in the toilet. I had meant to turn the water on before I puked. I
hope the television was loud enough that she didn’t hear that.
    I flushed the toilet and turned around to the sink and
turned the cold water on. I splashed some on my face and then reached for my
toothbrush. I hadn’t got as far as the paste before I had to turn around again,
this time ridding myself of our dessert…I think. I leaned there for a few
minutes with my knees against the toilet and my forehead against the wall. I
didn’t usually feel pity for myself. In spite of having cancer, I live a pretty
normal, full life. But tonight, all I wanted to do was spend the evening with
Molly. I wanted to look at her pretty face and talk to her about…everything.
Yet here I was with my head in the toilet, and now I’m having a pity party in
my head to boot.
    I tried it again, turning slowly this time and keeping
my eyes I one spot. That’s what my doctor had always told me to do when I got
really nauseated. No quick movements of the head or the eyes. It makes you lose
your equilibrium which makes you a little dizzy or lightheaded, which makes the
nausea even worse.
    I washed my face again, this time with a washcloth,
and slowly. Then I reached again for my toothbrush. I hoped that the paste
wouldn’t make me want to throw up again, but I’d be damned if I was going to go
out there with puke breath.
    I made it through the teeth cleaning, flushed and
washed once more, and then headed out the door and back down the hall, the
whole time trying to come up with an excuse for why I was gone so long. As soon
as I saw her face, I knew she had heard me throw up. I felt my face going hot
with embarrassment and the anxiety stirring in my chest was probably going to
make me want to puke again. Then she smiled and said, “Are you okay?”
    I smiled back. How could I not? “I’m good, thanks. I
have a really…sensitive stomach. That’s what the diet’s about.”
    “Me too,” she said. “Believe me, I understand.”
    “If anyone else said that, I would think they were
just being nice. But somehow I believe that you really do