Stealing the Bride

Chapter Nine

Pascal

Whoever came up with the phrase “tossing one’s cookies” is a moron. They obviously never throw up because if they did, they’d know there’s nothing cookie-esque about throwing up.

I clutch the toilet rim, feeling like my stomach lining’s being ripped raw. My throat is aching like a million microscopic bees have stung the delicate tissue there.

Curie crouches next to me, her gentle hand on my back. “Are you all right?” she asks.

I nod, panting, even as cold sweat beads on my face. “Give me a second.”

That’s such a lie, though. I need at least a week, flat on my back. Damn it. I clench my teeth as my stomach churns dangerously, sloshing its contents like a raft in a storm.

I look down and see the lace trimming on Curie’s white gown. Crap. Today’s the day, and I’m here, trying to empty everything from my stomach…and then some. I feel like I’m going to empty my liver and gallbladder as well.

“You don’t have to come, especially if you feel this bad,” she says softly, blotting the sweat off my hairline with a Kleenex.

“It’s your wedding. Once-in-a-lifetime deal.”

The whole thing comes out in a whispery whine, and if I had the strength, I’d smack myself silly for that. I, Pascal Snyder, do not whine. Not so pitiably, anyway.

Besides, I’m being unreasonable. There’s no way I can stand next to her as her maid of honor when my stomach is roiling to a “Ride of the Valkyries” that only it can hear. The worst thing is, whatever vile substance is making me puke should be out by now, but my belly is refusing to settle. It’s like a rowdy hamster on crack.

It’s so unjust. I really wanted to be part of her wedding. I’ve been looking forward to it all year long.

“Sorry. Letting you down,” I say, finally turning to face her.

She hands me a small towel to wipe my mouth. “It doesn’t matter. What I care about is you getting better soon. I’m going to miss you at the ceremony.”

“I should’ve just fasted. I’d look better in my dress.” The joke is flatter than a road-kill possum.

Still, Curie’s awesome and manages a smile. “Yeah, but there’s gonna be photographer…and of course the video. You can watch it later.” She squeezes my hand.

“Okay.” The response comes out listless and pathetic. Even though she and I are trying to be positive, we both know it’s not the same thing. But what can I do? If I could will myself to be healthy, I would.

Even squatting next to me on the bathroom floor, Curie’s gorgeous. And I’m not just saying that because she’s my identical twin.

Her dark brown hair is twisted into a simple, elegant updo. Subtle makeup brings out the blue in her eyes and adds fullness to her lips. The dress is perfect too. It’s not too heavy or complicated, since the wedding’s going to be on the beach. The bodice fits her tightly, pushing her breasts up. The long skirt is made of a light material that should move freely to the breeze from the Pacific on the beach.

“You’re the most radiant bride ever,” I say. “I’m so happy for you.”

“I couldn’t have planned all this without your help, Pascal. I love you so much.” She hugs me tightly.

Mom sticks her head into the bathroom. She’s in her new hot-pink dress and full makeup. “It’s time.” She turns to me, looking sympathetic. Curie and I took after her. “How you feeling, hon?”

“Could be better.” I turn to Curie. “You should go.”

She starts to bite her lip, then catches herself. Her carefully penciled eyebrows pinch together. “I hate leaving you alone when you don’t feel good.”

“I’ll be fine. Just gonna go lie down.”

I’m not letting my hateful stomach of evil ruin Curie’s special day. I even force a smile for her behalf, although the worry stays on her face. Still, she leaves with Mom.

My legs shake a little as I stand up, but they hold. I rinse my mouth and look at myself in the mirror. My makeup is useless. It can’t hide the greenish pallor underneath. The blush makes me look actively ridiculous. Like a color-blind clown who’s trying too hard.

The mascara and eyeliner are smudged from sweat. I scowl at the dark rings around my eyes. Waterproof, my ass. But if I try to sue them for false advertising, I bet their lawyers would say, “We never claimed it was sweatproof.”

It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be at the wedding anyway. Who cares how I look?