Page 42 of Afterglow

“You know I didn’t mean it that way. I just worry about you. You look thinner too. Are you eating enough? I know Craig used to be the one who cooked—”

“Can we not talk about Craig, please?” I snap.

She flinches at my scolding tone and my irritation wilts. It’s not her fault she has no idea how badly things ended with Craig, and I never lose my temper with her, or with anyone in my family. The closest I think they’ve ever seen me to losing it was that day at the ranch when I was antagonistic with Bryce.

“I want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

I respond much softer this time. “I know, but I can take care of myself just fine. I don’t need a man to feed me.”

My mind shifts to Bryce and our grilled cheese dates and the groceries he picked up to fill my fridge and pantry. I guess I do have a man feeding me, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Right, well, I’m happy to serve you a home-cooked meal tonight. I’m sure there will be leftovers too.”

The prospect seems to cheer her up and she relents, dropping her inquiries about how I’m feeling. Everyone chatters around us while we set the table and I pick up on small snippets of their conversations. Jenna and Eric’s plan to get a puppy—this is a terrible idea since they’re barely ever home. Evelyn’s newest side-hustle idea that’s sure to end with Dad bailing her out.

Speaking of Dad, he walks in at that moment with the cutting board in hands, a huge slab of meat laid across that looks like it’s been cooked to perfection.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll get to find out if that’s the case. As he passes me, the scent hits my nostrils and my stomach flips in a way it hasn’t in weeks. The queasy feeling the meds have kept at bay is back in full force and a clammy tingle runs down my spine.

I swallow thickly, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of my neck, and try to breathe in through my mouth to avoid another cloying nose-full.

It’s fine, this will be fine.

Another heave lifts my stomach and I squeeze my eyes shut.

I will not throw up. I will not throw up.

“Leanne?” Jenna asks quietly, pressing her palm to my back. Her simple touch is enough to throw off the minimal control I have over my stomach, and I bolt for the bathroom.

No matter how many times you throw up, it does not get easier, and I think my brain blanked out all my memories of what I’ve coined “the week from hell,” because this feels worse than ever before.

Rubbing my palm over my abdomen, I whisper, “Little baby, what are you doing to me?”

I quickly rinse my mouth out and splash water on my face, like it can wash away the last few minutes. I really don’t want to explain why I just sprinted from the room to vomit. At least my hair is pulled back and looks as slick and stylish as it did before.

I square my shoulders and pull the door open, glad to see they aren’t all standing in the hallway waiting for me. But they are sitting around the table with looks of blatant curiosity when I walk back into the main living space.

I glance toward the kitchen and the cutting board covered over by aluminum foil. Thank god for small mercies. The smell still permeates the space, but it’s not as aggressive as before.

“Sorry, everyone, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head home.” I back away toward the door, holding my breath the closer I get to the kitchen.

It’s Dad who stops me. “Lee.” His voice is soft and full of concern. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I say too quickly, avoiding eye contact. “I’m just tired and must still be sick. I don’t want to pass it to anyone else, so I think I’ll go.”

“Leanne, are you…” Mom starts but shifts her gaze to Jenna who’s staring at me with a skeptical expression that’s mixed with concern.

“Are you pregnant?” Jenna asks, filling in the question Mom clearly couldn’t find the voice for.

“What? Why would you ask me that?” I go on the defensive, angry I couldn’t keep this one thing secret when I’ve kept so many others. Why won’t they just let me leave?

I know from the look Mom exchanges with my sisters that they were talking about this while I was in the bathroom. “You’re not drinking. You’ve been avoiding the family for weeks. You’re getting sick—you never get sick.” Mom’s open concern almost has me softening until she says, “Is this why you got so upset when I brought up Craig? Did you two…” She trails off, but the implication is clear.

Anger and hurt tangle together at the mere mention of his name in connection with my pregnancy. He doesn’t get to have any part of this. Not today. Not ever. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I seethe. At least my avalanching emotions are forcing the nausea to subside.

Everyone at the table stares at me with wide eyes and open mouths like they’ve never seen me before. Maybe because they haven’t. Not really.

Leanne, the perfect daughter who always does what she’s asked and never rocks the boat, isn’t here right now. I knew this dinner was a bad idea. And it only goes from bad to worse when I open my mouth again.