Out On a Limb(32)

“The Clit-Stim 9000…” Caleb strolls back into the kitchen, slapping the box against his palm. “Do we have this one?” he asks his wife, who’s at least looking a touch guilty under her thin-lipped smile.

“They had to make nine versions?” Bo asks.

“It must have been made by a man,” I say, dropping a book titled First-Time Dad onto his pile with a not-so-subtle thud, “if it took them nine tries to figure out how to properly please a woman.”

Bo’s tongue pushes against the side of his cheek as he nods, an arrogant gleam in his eye returning. “Not all men need nine chances, if I remember correctly.” He moves the chocolates that I had allocated to his pile back to mine, leaning closer. “Some of us only needed one,” he whispers.

He then absolutely destroys the tension he began pulling like a corset around my throat by biting down on his cracker in a purposefully aggressive manner, spinning on his heel toward Caleb, and throwing a hand up.

“Toss it,” Bo commands.

Caleb throws the box, and Bo catches it, palming it in one hand. “Here,” he says, placing it next to my pile.

“My hero,” I say dryly.

“You can keep all of it,” Bo says, looking at our piles. “Well, maybe I’ll keep the book and the”—he holds up the black T-shirt with white writing on it, wearing a lopsided smirk—“Call me Daddy shirt.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Sarah is a pervert,” I say.

“I heard that!” She swipes a cracker from Bo’s open tray as she walks by.

I glare at her as she and Caleb begin uncorking a bottle of wine together. “Keep your half,” I say to Bo. “I distributed it fairly.”

“But this,” he points between us, “isn’t particularly fair either. From where I’m standing, you’re doing all the work. I’m like the kid who asks to see the group project the day before the presentation.”

I admire his pile thoughtfully. “Okay, fine. I want this, and you take this.” I take some ginger candies—which, in hindsight, were probably meant for my nausea anyway—and hand him the pack of twenty questions. “You can be in charge of asking those. A little piece of responsibility.”

“Great.” He smiles.

I walk over to the sink and fetch an empty cup to fill, feeling a little flushed.

“You okay?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah, just getting that my-stomach-is-turning-upside-down feeling.” I turn off the tap and bring the glass to my lips.

“What feeling?” Bo steps nearer, his eyes narrowed on me in concern.

“Nausea,” I say, trying to sip slowly. “It can come out of nowhere sometimes.” Clammy skin, rushing blood, quickening heartbeat. Everything begins smelling weird all of a sudden, and my tongue feels too big for my mouth. All the usual signs that point toward needing to get to a bathroom quickly. “I’ll be right back. Are you okay?” I ask Bo.

Bo looks taken aback at my question, his head jarring backward. “Yes, of course. I’m fine. Go, I’ll—”

I don’t let him finish before I’m running to the main floor’s powder room, fighting the vomit forcing its way up my throat from escaping too soon.





CHAPTER 12





A soft knock is drowned out by the sound of the toilet flushing.

“You okay in there, champ?” Sarah asks from the other side of the door.

I groan, letting my forehead hit the cool tiled wall next to the toilet seat.

“Do you need anything? Water?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, reaching for the toilet paper to wipe my mouth, my throat dry. “Water, please.”

“Okay, Bo’s coming in.”

What? No! He can’t see me like—

“Hey,” Bo says, his voice full of sympathy as he opens, then immediately shuts, the door.

I whine internally as I imagine what I must look like, tucked in an upright foetal position against the wall. Sarah’s aversion to anything bloody or gross is turning out to be extremely inconvenient. She could have at least sent Caleb in instead.

“I have water and some of those ginger candies. Sarah said they might help.” He hands me the glass of water, then twists open the paper candy wrapper. “Do you want one?”

I nod, avoiding eye contact, and present my palm to Bo. He drops the golden candy into it, then tosses the wrapper into the garbage next to the toilet.

“So this is an everyday thing, huh?” he asks, opening a drawer under the sink.

“A few times a day lately.”

“Shit, Win. I’m sorry,” he says. I look toward him when I hear the sink turn on. He’s holding a washcloth under the water, letting it soak. Seconds later, he turns off the tap and wrings it out twice before folding it into a neat rectangle.

With a firm grip on the corner of the bathroom’s vanity, Bo supports his weight as he lowers to one knee. “Here,” he says, delicately pushing my hair aside and placing the cool cloth on the back of my neck.

I have to admit, it feels amazing. Though Bo’s far-too-big body is far too near in Sarah’s far-too-small half bath. I can’t tell if the nausea is residual or a sign of more to come, or if it’s overwhelm due to Bo’s looming proximity.