Mean Streak

In this case, maybe meant yes, because nausea had awakened her a half hour ago. She’d been lying there, trying to talk herself out of it. At the risk of waking him, she didn’t want to get up and stagger into the bathroom. She didn’t want to ask for his assistance, but, worse, she didn’t want to throw up in his bed.

So when he asked if she needed the bathroom, although she committed only as far as maybe, she was grateful to him for taking it as a definite, emergency-level yes. He pulled back the covers. She slid her legs to the side of the bed and set her feet on the floor. He cupped her underarms and helped her to stand.

Knees wobbly, she took a tentative first step. “Steady.” He placed one arm around her waist and secured her against his side.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No bother.”

The distance to the bathroom was a matter of steps, but it seemed longer than the Great Wall of China. When they got to the door, he reached around her and flipped on the light, then pulled the door closed, saying, “Take your time.”

But she didn’t have time to do anything except drop to her knees in front of the toilet bowl. There wasn’t much to throw up, but the spasms were intense, wracking her whole body, and she continued retching even after her stomach was empty. When at last it stopped, she flushed and, using the sink as a handhold, weakly pulled herself up.

He spoke from just the other side of the door. “Okay?”

“Better.”

She’d never felt water as cold as that which came out of the faucet, but it felt good when splashed against her face. She washed her mouth out several times. Her vision was still a bit blurred, which was just as well. She was glad she couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror above the sink with 20/20 clarity. Even fuzzy it was dreadful.

She was sallow. Her lips all but colorless. She had bedhead of the worst sort. The blood in her hair had dried to an unsightly black crust. But she was too wrung out to care how frightful she looked.

She was more concerned about the headache. The pain was no longer like the nail gun. It was blunter than that. More like a baton being beaten against her cranium fro

m the inside. The light made it worse. She turned it off and then shuffled to the door and opened it.

He was right there. She was eye level with his sternum. “After that, I think I’ll feel better.”

“Good.” He reached out to help support her, but when he touched her shoulder, his hand moved around to the back of her neck under her hair. “You’re sopping wet.”

During the bout of vomiting, she’d broken a cold sweat that had left her skin drenched, her clothes damp. “I’ll be fine.” She barely got the words out. Her teeth had begun to chatter.

He guided her back to the bed and eased her down onto the side of it. “I’ll get you something to change into.”

“No, really, I—”

“You can’t spend the rest of the night in wet clothes.”

He left her, went to a bureau tucked under the sloped ceiling, and pulled a flannel shirt much like the one he was wearing from a drawer. When he handed it down to her, she met him eye to eye.

“I’m not going to undress,” she said, meaning it.

He watched for her a moment, then went back into the bathroom and came out with a fresh towel, still folded. Although the gesture was kind, his expression wasn’t. His lips had thinned into a cynical line. “Your virtue is safe, Doc. I meant to set up the screen to give you some privacy.”

He dragged it away from the wall and unfolded the panels. When it was balanced, he stepped around it, leaving her feeling like an ungrateful idiot.

Whatever modesty she’d ever possessed had been abandoned in med school. She and fellow interns had practiced procedures on one another, usually amid ribald joking, but in any case it had been impossible to remain maidenly skittish about nudity and bodily functions.

As she unzipped her running shirt, she told herself she hadn’t protested undressing because of modesty, but rather self-preservation. He’d been caring and considerate, a gentleman. But how trustworthy was a man who wouldn’t even share his name?

She undressed as quickly as her uncontrollable shivering allowed. Rid of everything on top, she hastily dried her torso with the towel, then pulled on the shirt he’d loaned her. The flannel was old, soft, and it felt wonderful to be free of the binding, clammy jogging bra.

Last to go were her running tights. In the morning, she’d put them back on, but for now, it felt good to slide her bare legs between the sheets.

He couldn’t see her, but he must have been listening to the rustle of clothing and bed covers. Once she was settled beneath them, he said, “Is the coast clear?”

“You can leave the screen.”

He began folding up the panels.