I get in and crank the car, blasting the air conditioner, pointing the vents in her direction. “Do we need to go to a hospital?”
She leans back on the headrest, shaking her head. “No. Roll my window down. In case.”
“Tell me when to pull over, okay? Just don’t take off your seat belt.”
She winces. “Vomit is on your jacket. I’m sorry.”
“Shh, it’s fine. Hang on.” Whipping out of the parking lot, I drive past the big houses, pointing the car toward her place. My heart pounds. It’s just vomit, so why am I so worried? It’s not the pregnant thing; I believe her when she says she isn’t, but . . .
I ease my hand over, find hers, and hold it tight.
Chapter 18
NOVA
Ronan’s drawn face bends toward me as he carries me into the house. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I want to hurl,” I say, willing the boiling lava in my stomach to settle.
He pushes through the door and rushes into the den.
Sabine stands up from the couch. “What’s wrong?”
My stomach rumbles again, and I wrestle out of Ronan’s grip. He doesn’t want to let me go but finally does. I cling to the staircase, my head spinning. “I don’t know; I never do this . . .” I stop, frowning. Unless . . .
Sabine reads my mind. “Did you eat shellfish?”
“You have a shellfish allergy?” Ronan bellows. “Why didn’t you tell me? Where’s the goddamn EpiPen!”
Sabine cocks her head at him. “Remain calm. She doesn’t need an EpiPen. It’s not that serious. Shellfish allergies can occur at any time, mostly when you’re an adult. It started when she was twenty-five and had lobster while we were on vacation in Maine. After that, Mama declared Maine was the worst place in the United States. Her reactions have happened two times since then, all by accident. Once she had clam in soup; the other was sushi. Mama said she never should have gone to that sushi place.”
“I ordered the veggie rolls,” I say weakly.
She ignores me. “Regardless, something went wrong. Nova doesn’t eat most seafood or chicken. I’m not sure why she hates chicken, but she does. When she eats shellfish, she feels faint, vomits, gets a rash on her stomach, and sometimes has diarrhea—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I say, my shoulders slumping as I trudge up the stairs. “There might have been crab or lobster in the quiche. I didn’t ask, and I should have. I only had a few. Bring the Benadryl, Sabine.”
After clicking down the air on the thermostat, I make it to the bathroom next to my bedroom and throw up again. Leaning over the sink, I wash my face and pat it dry. The door opens, and Ronan walks in with the medicine.
Wearing a frown, he sits on the edge of my tub and pulls out his phone, scrolling.
I take the Benadryl, then grimace at my white face in the mirror.
His voice is abrupt. “Are you having difficulty breathing, swelling of your throat, or a rapid pulse?”
I chug the Sprite he brought. “Don’t look it up on your phone. It will only scare you. I’ll be fine in a few hours. You should go back to the party. For real. This is just a mild reaction.”
He stands, a scowl on his forehead. “If you think I’m leaving you, you’re crazy.”
I exhale. “Fine. Help me out of this dress.” I put my hands on the sink, clinging to the edge.
He unzips the back, easing it off my shoulders. His fingers trace a line down my back. “I’ve never seen you sick.”
“It happens.”
“You’re always so peppy and . . .” He takes a step away from me, picking up my dress and laying it over the hamper.
“This will pass,” I assure him. “And I’ll go back to being pissed at you.”
Wearing my thong and lace bra, I take small steps and hang on to the wall as I edge past him and turn on the shower. I glance at him over my shoulder. “Privacy?”
“Nova . . . there’s something I want to say. I fucked up the pantry moment for us.” He tugs at his hair, his face grimacing. “There’s a wall of fear inside me. I froze up and didn’t know how to handle us.” He lowers his head, then looks at me. “I hate us being at odds.”
Part of me relishes this open side of Ronan, but the other part, self-preservation, doesn’t want to be hurt. I push up a smile. “Okay, I’m glad you said that. May I shower now?”
He bites his lower lip as his eyes skate over my face. “What if your throat starts swelling? We need to make sure your reactions don’t worsen with each exposure. I want to hang around in the bathroom.”
“Ronan . . .” My words stall.
“I just want to make sure . . .” He scrubs his face. “Whitney died on my watch, Nova.”