Bloodline(20)

“I was on the road with my boyfriend. Boyfiend, I now call him. We traveled as far south as Lilydale. We ran short on scratch, so the ding-a-ling ditched me. I got a gig here, an apartment.” She points to the ceiling. “Upstairs from my job. Convenient. It’s as good a place as any until I figure out my next move.” She plants her elbows on the bar and drops her chin into her hands. “If you ever want to stop by and hang, I work nearly every day, and your money’s good with me.”

I smile as it dawns on me that I’m looking at the first thing about Lilydale that Ursula would approve of. I won’t have any more of my drink—I didn’t want it in the first place—but I’ll be damned if I’ll let my discomfort push me out.





CHAPTER 13

Which is how I wake up Saturday morning with a job, a friend, and an orange-and-white-striped ball of fur purring on my chest. “Slow Henry, you know you’re not supposed to be in bed.”

He pretends not to hear. I scratch him in the sweet spot behind his ear.

“Small-town life suits you,” I say. “Maybe we can grow fat and glossy together.”

I slip my hand under my nightgown, sliding it along my warm belly. The sip of last night’s Tom Collins doesn’t seem to have harmed anything, other than giving me a case of near-immediate heartburn. I’m four days shy of five months pregnant, and my pants still fit.

Soon they won’t, though. The thought turns my throat greasy.

Morning sickness?

No, it’s something else, one of the attacks that started at Mom’s funeral. The first one, I thought I was dying but was too embarrassed to tell anyone, so I ran into the bathroom to hide until it passed. I recognize them now by the way they make the air go thick and slanted, until I can’t seem to fit it down my throat. It’s like I’m being buried alive and I need to run or hide or jump out of my own skin, but I can’t escape them no matter what I do.

I shove the quilt off, Slow Henry with it.

He howls.

I feel terrible, but if I don’t get some fresh air immediately, I’m going to vomit.

I race to the window, scrabbling at the wood. I must crack it. Now. I need air or I’ll die. The window is stuck. In my desperation, I peel back two fingernails trying to pry it open. The pain is breathtaking.

“Joanie? Let me help you with that.”

I spin, plastering myself to the wall.

Deck sets a tray down on the bed. He strolls over to the window. Unlocks it. Slides it open. The rush of morning-cool May air kisses my skin. Warbling birdsong and the distant thrum of cars drift inside. My heartbeat is no longer the loudest sound in the room.

Deck studies me, his expression perplexed. “Are you okay, honey?”

I nod. Swallow. Point at the tray. “You made breakfast?”

Deck smiles, runs his hand through his thick, dark hair. He’s so damn good-looking. “Your favorite. French toast and bacon. Coffee with whitener.”

I push sweaty hair out of my eyes. Smooth the front of my nightgown. Swallow again. The nausea has passed. “Thank you. Do I have to eat it here?” My lips catch on my teeth. “Because I don’t want to mess up the sheets.”

It’s uncharitable, I know. He obviously wanted to bring me breakfast in bed. I need to escape this room, though, and some animal part of me understands I must do it calmly, to not alert Deck to the depth of the discomfort I’ve just experienced. I haven’t told him about the attacks. I don’t want him to think I’m losing my mind.

His expression slips. He turns from me, picking up the tray and walking out the door. “Let’s eat in the nook you like so much,” he calls over his shoulder.

I glance around the room, clenching and then releasing my hands to get blood circulating. I toss the quilt back on the bed, plump the pillows. Then I drop on my knees and peek under the bed. Slow Henry is hiding there, pouting and licking his paw, glaring at me. I stretch to pet him.

“Sorry, buddy. A momentary lapse of reason.”

When I pad downstairs, I see Deck has a tablecloth—a sheet, actually; we don’t own tablecloths—spread across the kitchen’s built-in breakfast table. I’ve been begging him to eat there since we moved, but he hasn’t wanted to. He was fine doing it in our Minneapolis apartment, but not in his childhood home. His mother taught him that meals involve family, and with only two seats, the nook doesn’t have enough room.

I beam. Eating in the cozy alcove is the perfect antidote to what just happened upstairs. “You sure?”

Deck pats the bench next to him. “Yeah. It was unreasonable not to use this space. You were right. It’s comfy.”

I scooch next to him and sniff the food. It’s gone cold and so doesn’t have much scent. I see he’s left all the dirty dishes on the counter, the ingredients he used to make the breakfast out and open. “This looks delicious.”

He rubs my back while I douse the french toast in amber-colored syrup.

“You’re not having any?” I ask.

“I already ate.” He hadn’t been home when I returned from Little John’s last night. I assume his meeting was a success.

“I have so much to catch you up on,” I say after I swallow my first bite. “I was at the school last night. Covering the music concert for the paper.”

He nods.