A slight wince on Luke’s face at the mention of work. “Yes Dad, I’ll deal with it. I’ve already got Brock busting my balls, so please let’s not go too much into it now. It’ll get resolved, don’t worry.”
His Dad doesn’t look completely convinced. I get the impression that he’s a guy finding it difficult to make the adjustment into retirement.
I try to follow along with the conversation as best I can, but I’m distracted by a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m chugging water by the glass to attempt to keep it at bay, but every time the waiters pass me by carrying plates of food, the smell makes bile rise in my throat.
“Want to order some wine, Tessa?” Luke’s mom is asking me, a kindly smile on her face.
“Oh, uh, no thanks Mrs. Alder, that’s very kind of you. I’m trying my best to steer clear of alcohol these days. My father was an alcoholic, and I hear it can run in families. It’s probably better if I just don’t touch the stuff.” I glance sideways at Luke. “I’ve also been known to make . . . questionable decisions while under the influence. I’ll stick with water.”
Luke grins cheekily. “I heard some rumors about the last time you were in Vegas—”
I cut him off with a hard kick under the table.
We toast, them with wine, and me with water, as Luke rubs his shin gingerly.
Everything is going fine, but it’s a plate of spaghetti that finally does it for me. It looks absolutely delicious, but the smell triggers my nausea something fierce. Bile surges in my throat, and I know I won’t be able to stop it this time.
“Excuse me for just a moment,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I rush off to the restrooms, cursing this damn morning sickness. As I’m leaving, I can see concern written clearly on Luke and his parent’s faces.
God, I hope they don’t think I’m bulimic or something. How long is it until I’m out of the first trimester? Isn’t it supposed to stop by then?
Luke
My mom is staring at me with a bizarre expression on her face, studying me intently. I wonder what it is that she’s thinking, and frown back at her. She’s smiling, looking at me, then back to my dad, who looks as bemused as I am.
“Well, Luke, I guess congratulations are in order,” she says, eyes sparkling, with a broad smile on her face. “When were you going to tell us?”
I’m a little taken aback by her words. What the hell is she talking about, anyway? I look at my mom, then to my dad, then back to my mom, mouth slightly agape, before finding the words to respond.
“What exactly are you talking about? I honestly . . . I mean, I have no idea what’s going on here.”
I sit back in my chair, placing my hands flat on the table in front of me, waiting for my Mom to do a little explaining, but she merely looks back at me with an expectant expression on her face.
“Come on, Luke,” she says, impatience creeping into the edge of her voice. “We weren’t born yesterday, you know. That’s the third time she’s been to the bathroom this evening, and we haven’t even had the main course yet.”
I shake myself, still none the wiser as to what she’s implying. I figure Tessa’s probably sick, or is suffering from nerves mixed with too much water, which she’s been chugging down since we arrived at the table.
“Well, first of all, Mom, it’s a little weird you’ve been counting, frankly. Second, she’s been drinking water constantly since she’s sat down. She’s just had a little too much, and is probably a little nervous, that’s all.”
Doubt lingers on my mom’s face, and I start to get a little annoyed with the beaming, Cheshire-cat smile that remains on her face.
“You don’t need to hide it from us or keep it a secret, son. We’re both pleased for you,” she says.
Seriously. What the hell is she talking about?
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about, Mom,” I say bluntly, trying to get it across to her that I really have no clue what’s going on.
Mom lets out a gust of air. I’m not keeping up, apparently. When she speaks, there’s an exasperation in her voice, like a teacher who’s irritated by a notably slow student. “Well, she’s gagging every time they bring food past. All it took was for her to look at that spaghetti in the waiter’s hand to go green and rush off to the bathroom.”
Mom raises an eyebrow as if I should know what she’s trying to get at.
“Maybe she doesn’t like spaghetti? Or she’s had a bad reaction to the first course? How am I supposed to know?” I ask, taking a sip of wine.