"After the clinic. No--" he continues, cutting off my protest. "I want to make sure you're okay."
"Dammit, I am. I was just light-headed. How many times do I have to say it?"
"You were out cold for a full minute, baby. You didn't even stir when I carried you out here."
"But I'm awake now." I force myself to take a mental step back. To breathe. I don't like doctors. I never have. My memories of doctors are tied up with my mother's ploys to get me prescription appetite suppressants because "she's such a pretty girl, but her hips and thighs have a tendency toward chubby," or my own attempts to hide my self-inflicted scars, always fearing that some doctor would notice and insist I see a shrink.
"How about a compromise?" I suggest. "Hotel now, but if I start to feel dizzy, we'll go to the clinic."
For a moment, he says nothing, and I imagine the debate raging in his head. His desire to please me versus his concern and his need for answers. Finally, though, he nods. "All right, Ms. Fairchild," he says, using my maiden name as a term of endearment. "It looks like we have a deal."
I return the smile, feeling smug. Then I take a step toward Caroline and Misty, intending to say goodbye. And that's when my smugness vanishes.
That's when the nausea consumes me.
That's when I bend forward in a sudden, unexpected spasm and vomit all over Misty's pristinely manicured lawn.
4
"Considering I'm not sick, I'm certainly being pampered." We're back from the clinic Damien dragged me to, and now I'm curled up on our hotel suite's overstuffed sofa, my feet in his lap. It's barely past noon, but the curtains are closed, and the lamps are dim, and the ambience is making me sleepy.
He chuckles, then squeezes my big toe. "Are you saying I shouldn't be pampering my wife?"
"Actually, that was more of an 'I told you so' sort of comment." I conjure a victorious grin. "The pampering is my reward for being right."
He presses his thumbs against the bottom of my foot in a way that has me arching back and moaning with pleasure. "I'm always happy to reward you," he assures me. "But your prognosis is still an open question."
"I'm fine," I insist because I refuse to believe that anything is wrong. "The doctor said what I said--everybody gets lightheaded sometimes."
"And I get worried sometimes." He stands, shifting my feet onto the cushion as he does. Then he sits again on the edge of the sofa right beside me, his palm on my cheek. Slowly, he leans in, then brushes a gentle kiss over my lips.
A soft tremor runs through me, and I curve my hand around the back of his neck, prepared to pull him down for a deeper, more enthusiastic kiss. "You don't need to worry," I whisper.
"I promise I'll stop when he calls with the results of the blood work."
I hesitate, my building desire warring with a lingering frustration, and I let my fingers fall away as I exhale sharply.
Damien sits up, his brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I say automatically. But my pleasant mood has disintegrated, and I continue, "I don't like being under a microscope. But you're determined to keep pushing it." I shift to sit up, and in the process, give him a small shove. He looks at me with concern, his brow furrowed, and that only sparks my growing foul mood. "I just want to sit up," I snap.
He stands. "By all means, sit however you like."
I know I'm being bitchy, so I open my mouth to apologize, but that's not what comes out. "You're annoyed because of how I'm sitting?" My stomach twists unpleasantly. We fight--we're married, of course, we fight--but usually there's a reason. This one is all on me. I'm a mess, and I know it. My emotions have been all over the place today, and now something hard and hot is rising inside me, and it seems that I can't control my temper, much less my words.
Damien drags his fingers through his hair, his expression a mix of both compassion and frustration. "Baby, I'm sorry. This town. Your mom. Getting sick. You have every right to feel off."
"I'm not sick--I mean, come on, Damien, are you even listening to me?" Now it's my turn to stand. I tell myself I should leave, because everything inside me is churning. I'm touchy and emotional, and I know that no matter what he says, it's going to be the wrong thing, and that's never how I feel with Damien. Which means he's right, of course. This is because of my mom. Because of Dallas.
And because I fainted and then vomited all over the lawn of a perfect stranger.
Just the memory makes me want to curl up and hide. "You put me on display," I accuse. "Calling an ambulance just for a fainting spell? The whole neighborhood came out to stare."
"Christ, Nikki. You passed out. I was fucking terrified. I wasn't concerned with being subtle."
"You weren't subtle at all." I choke a little, then blink furiously to hold back the tears. "What the hell happened to the Damien Stark who holds his private life close to the vest?"
He cocks his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. I meet his gaze, but hug myself, readying for the onslaught of accusations. That I'm overly emotional. That I'm tired. That I'm stressed. That I'm a complete emotional wreck because of this town, and maybe I should think about only competing for contracts that send me to cities that aren't Dallas. Better yet, that aren't in Texas.
He doesn't say any of that. Instead, he moves closer. He doesn't touch me, however, and as we stand there, only inches apart, I realize that I am longing for him to do just that. I want him to enfold me in his arms. I want to cling to him until the world turns right again. Until I turn right again.
But all he does is watch me. Then he says, "This isn't about fainting. It's not about being sick."
"It's not? Well, then by all means, tell me what it is that's upset me since you know me so much better than I know myself."
"It's about what I said to Caroline. About having kids someday."
I take an involuntary step backward. Because he's right. I hadn't realized it until he said it, but he's absolutely right. We've talked about kids a lot recently. We had the conversation before we got married, of course, and again more recently. And we've always been in agreement that we want to wait. That he's too busy being a master of the universe and I'm working long hours to get my own business off the ground. And on top of all of that, neither of us have good role models for how to be a parent. We'd agreed that we needed time. For ourselves. To get our lives in order. To get my business rolling.
But lately, I can't help but wonder if the expression of joy I see on Damien's face when he plays with our niece and nephew doesn't also have an element of longing. If he regrets waiting and wants to start a family of our own, just like Sylvia and Jackson have.
"Someday," Damien repeats, apparently following the breadcrumbs of my thoughts. "That's all I said to Caroline. Not today. Not next week. But someday." He takes my hands. "That's true, isn't it?"
I swallow, wishing I could read his mind as well as he always seems to be able to read mine. "Just because it's true doesn't mean it's not private."
Something hard flashes in his eyes, and for an instant, I think that I've pissed him off. But then he curses softly and shakes his head, his expression as warm as I've ever seen it. "You're right," he says, and I realize it's not me he's angry with; it's himself. "Goddammit, you're absolutely right. Sweetheart, I'm sorry."
"It's okay." His apology is like a ladder by which I can climb out of my deep, black hole. "Really." I draw a breath, realizing I'm no longer itching for a fight. That, somehow, he has smoothed my rough edges. "I just . . . I didn't expect it. I mean, we don't know Misty. And even though Ollie's mom's like family--"
"I get it," he says, leading me back to the couch. "You're right. And I love you. And I'm sorry."
He sits again, then pulls me down next to him. I sigh, reveling in the easy way his arm goes around me. The comfortable rhythm of being curled up against him. "I'm sorry, too," I whisper. "You're right about my mom and all the rest. It put me in a really crappy mood."
"I'd be surprised if it didn't. So here's the question I have for you." H
is voice is so serious, I shift in his arms so that I can see his face more clearly. "Comedy or drama, movie or television?"
I shake my head, amused. "Don't you have to review some spreadsheets before your call about that production facility?" Damien wasn't planning to work this weekend, but the construction manager of one of his foreign plants called right before we left Los Angeles. There's some sort of crisis that needs to be dealt with first thing Monday, local time. With the time difference, that means Sunday afternoon in Texas. "And aren't I supposed to be prepping for my meeting tomorrow?"
"My call's not for another two hours," he says. "And if you do any more prep work, your head's going to explode." I open my mouth to protest, but he continues on. "Take a break. Chill with your husband. We'll have a late lunch, and you can spend all evening going over your notes. Sound like a plan?"
"So long as I don't have to pick what we watch." I yawn as I snuggle close, certain he'll choose something amazing because he always does. And, in fact, I enjoy the first hour or so of Audrey Hepburn's and Cary Grant's shenanigans in Charade. I can't speak to the rest of the movie, though, because the next thing I know, I'm prone on the sofa, disoriented as I wake from an unexpected nap.
Damien's voice drifts back from the bedroom area, and the television is off. I reach for my phone to check the time and notice that Damien's notes are no longer on the coffee table. Which explains why I hear him talking to someone--he must be on his conference call.
I sit up and stretch, fighting both frustration and worry. It's far too early for me to be this tired, and yet I've been dragging for over a week now. Even before we left LA, it was often all I could do to focus on my computer screen at work, and coding often felt like slogging through a pudding-filled swamp. I would load up on coffee, but I think I've finally OD'd on my favorite pick-me-up, because lately even the thought of downing a cup leaves me vaguely queasy.
In other words, I'm off my game, and that's both frustrating and a little nerve-wracking. I'm hardly ever sick, but what if this time there really is something wrong with me? I'd told Damien I was fine, but that was more because I wanted it to be true, not because I'm certain. A walk-in clinic wouldn't make me hang around for something like cancer. They'd let me go home, call with the bad news, and tell me to make an immediate appointment with a doctor in LA.
I stand, propelled off the couch by the warring forces within me. One side telling me to stop worrying, that everything I told Damien about me being fine is absolutely true. The other side arguing that I've felt off for weeks, and that, obviously, something is wrong, and I shouldn't have been so snippy with Damien since he's obviously right.
I scowl at my phone, not sure if I want it to ring so that I get the bad news, or stay silent so that I can hold onto the fantasy that all is well for just a bit longer.
Then again, maybe I should toss the thing off the hotel balcony, because clearly I'm turning into a raging hypochondriac, and that really can't be good.
Since none of the options sound appealing, I'm about to head into the kitchen to scope out the mini-bar. At home, I have an emergency stash of frozen Milky Ways, but I'd be happy for even the thawed kind at the moment.