Page 36 of Never Pucking Ending

To shake.

He doesn’t go in for a hug like I think he will, and the surprise must be evident on my face because he chuckles when I take his hand.

“It’s good seeing you,” he greets, gesturing toward the bar. “Let’s get inside. You look cold.”

He opens the door for me and hovers a hand over the small of my back to guide me in, careful not to actually touch me. He’s the kind of gentleman that books get written about. He is the Keanu Reeves of the fictional romance industry, never crossing lines and always respecting boundaries until he’s invited to do something about them.

When he pulls a stool out for me at the bar, I’m suddenly giving him another once-over like I’m trying to figure out why I don’t find him hotter. Maybe I do? He’s got more hair on his jaw than he did the last time I saw him, and I could get behind a beard. Maybe he just has to grow on me once—

I don’t let myself finish that sentence, or I’ll spiral into a guilt fest I won’t be able to get out of and ruin yet another outing with a very nice person. He doesn’t deserve me being distracted.

Not a date, I remind myself.

But two hours later, I start to realize the truth.

This is totally a date, and I’m a liar.

*

The ibuprofen doesn’t work.

In hindsight, I should have had more water throughout the day. I’m guilty of hating how bland it is, and the powders people put in them to give it flavor make it too grainy for my liking. But if I sucked it up, then this might have been prevented.

It starts when the dull thrum behind my right eye spreads to my left until the lights inside the bar begin hurting me. Then nausea settles into my stomach, making it nearly impossible to eat any of the appetizers Dane orders for us to share as we have a drink and go over a few more details of what I want at the store. He shows me pictures on his phone from old jobs that are beautiful, and everything I’d love to see once I get my plans approved.

Eventually, though, staring at the slideshow of images makes me want to vomit. And when I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, I cringe at the glassy-eyed version of myself I see in the mirror as I splash cold water on my face not caring if what little makeup I applied washes off.

A group of girls stumble into the bathroom, clearly tipsy. They giggle and crowd the sinks, checking their hair and makeup while one of their friends disappears in a stall. The sound of their laughter doesn’t help my head, so I walk out and try ignoring the lightheadedness making each step difficult.

As soon as I sit down, Dane asks, “Are you all right?”

I wince. I know I look rough, but I was hoping he wouldn’t notice. Aren’t men bad at noticing things? Once, I dyed my hair blonde and a guy I dated didn’t say a thing. When I called him out for it, he said he thought it was always that way. My hair is naturally brown. Darker than chocolate, but not quite black.

“I’m not feeling well,” I admit sheepishly, rubbing my temple hoping to alleviate some of the pressure building there. My eyes hurt so bad, that I’m worried they’ll combust at any second if I don’t lay my head down.

Clearing my throat feels like a chore, and it vibrates my head in ways that sends another wave of nausea ripping through me. “I think I have to go. I’m so sorry.”

I stand, grabbing my jacket and purse before he can say anything. He stands too, concern tilting his lips down. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” I force out, swallowing down the need to puke. I take out a few bills from my wallet and set them onto the table. “I’ll be fine. I just really need to go. Sorry. I’ll…I’ll let you know when I get home.”

I’ll feel bad about walking out on him later when I can think straight without wanting to cry. Right now, I just need to get home. That’s all.

It’s a miracle that I get back on my own without needing to pull over and empty the contents of my stomach or curl up in fetal position in the backseat. It’s tempting, but I manage to pull into the driveway in record time.

I forget about parking in the garage, choosing to leave the car closer to the entrance so I can go inside as soon as possible. It takes me three tries to punch in the code with shaky fingers, and I barely get inside before I’m launching toward the garbage and saying goodbye to the half a loaded potato I ate at the bar. Sinking against the cool tile floor in the kitchen, I hug the trashcan and let myself catch my breath.

I’m not sure how long I lay like that, keeping my eyes closed and feeling the thump, thump, thump echo in my skull and eardrums. When I’m positive I’m not going to throw up again, I get to my feet and slowly make my way upstairs. It’s more like a crawl, but when my body hits the bed belly first—shoes, jacket, and all—I all but groan.

I don’t remember falling asleep, and I have no clue what time it is before I hear my name whispered. Except, it doesn’t sound like a whisper. It may as well be somebody screaming at me because of how it bounces around in my head.

The incoherent noise I make is in protest, but I can’t figure out how to get the words out. A hand rests on my cheek before a cuss rings out in the room. “You’re burning up,” the voice says.

I feel like I am, but I’m too weak to do anything about it. If I move, my head will pound and who knows what will happen. I’m not even sure I can lift my arms on my own right now.

“Come on,” the voice coaxes softly, before something is tugged off my body. My jacket. It’s peeled off me one sleeve at a time, then my boots come off a moment later. “I’ll be right back.”

I think I drift off again, because I’m startled when something cool is draped over the back of my neck. I’m still laying on my stomach, unwilling to move.