Every Girl Does It(40)

“Deal,” I say softly, taking another shrimp. I mean, I might as well eat my fill, if he’s going to sit there and tell me he’s flying his ex-wife to Hawaii. And why couldn’t he have let me go? I would have been much happier on a plane right now, even if I was alone.

Oh, and I’m sure the flight attendant, whatever country she’s from, would walk up to me and be like, “Why you cry?” To which I would reply, “Because the man I love doesn’t love me back.” And then she would say, “Oh, so sad,” and walk away, but not before telling everyone in first class how sad my situation is and not to bother me… Wow. Some great things to look forward to on the way home.

We finish dinner and dessert and a long walk before going to the airport. And I would bore you with the details, except the fact that my blood is boiling so much during said time I can’t even recall what we talked about, or if we even talked. I guess you could call it being lost in thought or lost in anger. I think I like the second one better.

Anyway, we get to the airport, and guess what? The flight is delayed.

Okay, I can’t lie. I ate way too many shrimp, and those little buggers are freakishly rich and making my stomach do this heave-ho type thing with every breath I take. I’m sure Preston can hear it. I mean, seriously. If he isn’t running for the trees already this would solidify it for me.

“You okay?” He asks as he gently puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Fine,” I reply, trying to keep the food in my stomach. I need the pink stuff bad.

“Are you sure? Because you don’t look too well. I’m sorry we’re stuck here for another hour or so. Do you think you'll make it?” He looks genuinely concerned, which would normally touch me, if I wasn’t ready to blow half-digested shrimp all over his face.

If I don’t stop burping up the sweet sauce from the coconut, I’m going to lose my mind. “I think I just need to go to the restroom.”

“To throw up?” Preston asks smiling kindly. Why does he have to be so nice sometimes?

“Yes,” I groan weakly, and honestly, I feel like I am going to pass out any minute.

“I have an idea,” he says.

“Oh my gosh. Please, no more ideas. No more Angelina or Morocco or…” I can’t finish my sentence.

"No, nothing like that,” he says and within moments he’s slowly walking me to the single family bathroom and opening the door.

I try to protest, but I feel too sick to open my mouth. He did this to me! He should know I tend to overeat when I'm nervous, or that I eat when I don’t have nice things to say to people.

“You know, Amanda, you shouldn’t eat to get back at me. It's mean to your body.” He shakes his head, but I don’t care if he’s kidding around at this point. I just need to get rid of the excess rich food.

“Okay, so I’ll hold your hair,” he offers.

“You’ll do no such thing!” I’m completely mortified.

“Yes, I will. I don’t want old shrimp on your cute dress, or on your pretty face, or in your hair, okay?” He’s being difficult, and I don’t have time to argue, so I just nod my head and heave. Yeah, there it is. Everything I just ate at the restaurant makes its encore appearance in the shiny toilet.

The weird part is, he doesn’t even say anything. He isn’t mocking me, he isn’t laughing, and he isn’t even getting grossed out. Maybe it’s a fireman thing? I don’t know, but I do know one thing, and that is I’m ridiculously embarrassed right now. I just threw up shrimp in front of the hottest guy I know, even if he’s unavailable and a cheater. He’s still good looking, and, well okay, I’ll admit, deep down he’s a good guy. I can’t blame him for wanting his wife back or vice versa. I mean, I’d want him back if I was her.

I finish up and wash my tan face before finally working up enough guts (sorry, poor choice of words) to make eye contact. I look up to see Preston digging through his pockets. What in the world is he doing?

He pulls out two breath mints, one of those disposable toothbrushes, and some chap stick. And then I cry. I know, I know. I’m pathetic. But I’m just one of those girls who, once she doesn’t feel well, ends up crying, holding her teddy bear and calling her mom to ask her to please drive four hours to take care of her baby. I mean, it's not that I’m not independent, I just hate not feeling well. And here’s Preston in the bathroom with me, offering ways to make me feel better. Not only that, but he doesn’t seem the least bit affected the way I just got rid of all of my lunch/dinner in the same room we’re still standing in.

He kisses me, yes, kisses me on the forehead, before leaving. I sigh and cry to myself as I lean over the porcelain counter top. How did this happen? How did I fall in love with the most wonderful guy on the planet just to find out I can’t have him? Where’s the justice in this, God? I wait, but don’t get an answer. Maybe my feelings will dissipate, and one day Preston will be like the brother I've never had.

I meditate on this for a while and shake my head. No way can I ever look at that man and think brother. Not even if he was was a terrible kisser, which he isn’t. The man has a mouth on him, let me tell you. His kiss could get a girl pregnant. And I can’t see that perfect smile and tight body and imagine, Oh look, how nice. Preston and his wife are now having kids. and I'm still single. Nope, not going to happen. Dang, I‘m going to have to move. Or switch churches. I groan before trying to fix the mess I’m in the mirror.