ASMTD Ch. 09

Life is good.

June 27

One minute I'm asleep wrapped in Leo's arms and the next I'm up. Hand on my stomach, something crawling up my throat as I race to the bathroom. It's vomit. Not in my throat anymore but partially in the toilet with the rest splattered on the wall and floor.

My body convulses as I sink to my knees, arch my back, and watch my dinner and breakfast projectile out of my mouth in a greenish-brown soup. It hits the water and bounces back into my face and hair.

I'm not sure how long I'm on my knees, praying to the porcelain God to make it stop, but it's enough time that my seven o'clock alarm goes off. My cheek rests against the rim of the toilet, wet from a whole lot of sweat and a good amount of toilet water and throw up. I close my eyes and try to catch my breath as my body shivers, stomach heaving.

When was the last time I had food poisoning? Probably when I was ten from a bad cafeteria lunch. Most of the school got sick and my mother decided that she would pack my lunch from then on, no matter that she had to wake up earlier or stay up late or pay more: my health was important to her.

My body issues a second warning, enough time to turn my head into the toilet, before I'm back at it again. A cool hand presses gently into my back and I flinch. Leo groans behind me, but doesn't say anything. Water runs and a cold washcloth is pressed to the back of my neck.

"That's nice," I sigh, feeling like a bag of dicks.

"I think you're running a fever, Rai. How are you feeling?"

"Worse than I look."

"That's pretty awful. Do you want to go to the hospital?"

I shake my head no, and put my cheek back on the toilet seat. "I think it's just food poisoning."

"From the squid," he sighs. "You think you're done?"

"For now."

"Well, let's get you in the shower and cleaned up. I'll call down to the front desk and have someone take care of the mess."

"Don't want to do it yourself?" I tease tiredly, knowing if the shoe was on the other foot, I'd doing the same thing.

"It's simply hard to clean and take care of you, kultaseni."

"True."

Leo helps me into the shower. Once he's positive I can handle myself, he leaves to call the front desk. The water's icy on my skin, bordering on painful, as I close my eyes and half-heartedly wash. My stomach cramps and I wrap my arms around myself and crouch on the floor, forehead pressed to my knees.

Wait. Cramps? I lift myself enough to reach a hand between my legs. It's slick and gooey, fingers coming away red.

"Of fucking course," I sigh, lowering my head back down and riding out the worst of the pain. It's always in my thighs and lower back. Period cramps while sick. The worst of the worst, only made absolutely God awful with the addition of diarrhea, which will no doubt come very soon. I moan and rock myself, biting my lip against the pain.

When needles aren't being driven into my thighs and back, I switch to my knees and try my best to clean myself. It takes twice as long and is only half as good, but I call it quits when the faucet shoots water gathered from Antarctica. No way it's not.

Turning off the shower, I very carefully step out and wrap a towel around my waist. It's an effort avoiding looking at the toilet, but I manage it. I make a move to leave the bathroom but groan. In the front pouch of my backpack are my pads, and there's no way I'm leaving easy-to-wipe tiles for set-in-stain carpeted floors.

"Hey, Leo?" My voice couldn't sound any whiner or downtrodden if I wanted it to.

He's at the door in a second, looking as exhausted as I feel. "You okay? Throw up again?"

"No." My cheeks heat as I force myself to ask, "Can you grab me a pad from the front of my backpack. My period just came on."

He doesn't blink. "Sure. What color?"

The question throws me. "Uh, purple."

While I'm standing there wondering why he isn't freaking out or acting like he's never heard the world 'period' the answer hit me: his daughter. Girl's 14, so of course she's had her period. No doubt he probably went and bought her pads. That or his wife. Ex-wife, I remind myself yet again.

He comes back a second later with a pair of underwear, my pajamas, and the sanitary napkin. Man thinks of everything. "Thanks," I mutter as I shut the door and dress.

The sheets are fresh and a maid stands armed with cleaning supplies as I leave the bathroom. "Sorry," I whisper as Leo helps me into bed.

"Don't worry about it," he reassures. "Just get some rest."

The second my head hits the pillow, I'm out like a light.

***

The rest of the day passes in moments of sleep and bouts of vomiting. Leo's with me through it all: helping me change, cleaning up, forcing me to eat crackers and popsicles. He's obviously dealt with food poisoning before. When I'm awake and not vomiting (which is rare and only for a few minutes), he's working on the computer. The steady clack of his fingers hitting the keyboard relaxes me and the flex of his muscles makes me regret having to wait a week to have him back in bed. Though, after seeing me barf I can't imagine he'll want to fuck me again. Wishful thinking.

"Hey, Mr. Bossy Pants."

He stills in his typing and turns around in the swivel chair to give me an indulgent smile. Rays of sunset filter through the semi-closed curtains, bathing the room in soft oranges and reds. "I see someone's feeling better."

"Only took me ten hours."

Leo locks his computer and moves to the mattress, scooting over to me and leaning against the headboard. I slide closer and rest my head on his chest. "Tell me about your daughter."

"I thought you had an unspoken rule that we don't talk about her or my ex-wife," he says evenly, playing with the curls at the nape of my neck.

"Rules are made to be broken."

He's quiet. "Are you sure?"

I've got less than a week with Leo: Florence then Paris. It'll be torture to say goodbye, but bad heartbreak leads to good writing. And if Leo's going to break my heart, I don't want to just remember him as the Finnish tech guy with an ex-wife and a kid. He's not that one dimensional, and I need to stop forcing him to be.

I repeat words he said to me the night I gave him my virginity, "Helmi is such a big part of your life that not talking about her feels like we're taking several logs out of a bridge, making it impossible for us to cross and get closer."

His lips press into my forehead, warm, and he whispers something in Finnish. I imagine he's telling me he loves me, but I don't ask because I don't want there to be even a slight chance he'll tell me he's not.

"She's stubborn," he starts, "like me, but insanely passionate like her mother. That's one of the things I'm happy she inherited from Antonia. That spirit and fire. Her class took a field trip to one of the orphanages outside Helsinki when she was nine. Helmi couldn't wrap her head around the fact that the children didn't have mommies or daddies. So she came home and took all her dolls and had me drive up to the orphanage. Then she gave them out to the kids, saying these dolls were going to be their family and they could tell the dolls anything they wanted because they would always love them.

"That's the kind of person she is. She's aware of the—the privilege she has, but she doesn't take it for granted. And you know, she still goes to that orphanage once a month to help out. Rain or shine, she's there. She told me she wants to open a house, not just for people who don't have parents, but for those who don't have support."

"She sounds amazing."

There's a smile in his voice when he says, "She is. Most days. Other times, it's like living with a tornado. When she's angry, she's furious. When she's happy, she's ecstatic. And when a boy smiles at her, she's in love. I swear, she comes home at least once a week saying she's going to marry a new kid. Drives me crazy."

I couldn't even imagine Leo listening to his daughter moon over a classmate. Would his expressionless face prevail, or would there me a smile tugging at his lips and a question pulling at his brows? I'd pay good money to see that.

"Does she live with you?"

"Yes. For most of the year. She spends holidays with her mother, usually in Paris, sometimes in Barcelona."

"Paris?"

I can feel him nod as his whiskers catch my curls and lift them in the air. He smooths a hand down my frizz. "That's where she moved after the divorce. Antonia was dating an architect, but when it didn't work out she decided to stay in the city."

There's a question I know I shouldn't ask, but it slips out anyway, "Why did you have Helmi so young?"

His hand stills on my hair and I know I've done it. Crossed that line that I'm not supposed to cross. "Sorry, you don't have to—"

"It's fine," he reassures, hand resuming its movements. "I was just a little surprised you asked."

"I didn't mean to. You don't have to answer." But I really want him to. Want to know more—everything about him.

"I'm more than happy to answer, kultaseni. I'm glad you want to know me."

Biting my lip, I admit nothing. Not my feelings for him, not my trepidation, not the fear gnawing at me that one day soon he's going to wake up and realize I'm a size fourteen and my stretch marks are not cute and the sex is bland because my body does nothing for him.

He sighs like he can hear my thoughts and insecurities. "I met Antonia at the art gallery my mother owns. It was an exhibition of some famous Spanish artist and I was handling the ticketing.

"She walked in in this sexy black dress and I fell in love immediately. Well, in lust. But at 16 I didn't know the difference."

"I don't know many 16 year-old girls who go to art shows," I say aloud. Maybe if I'd gone to some, I could have met a guy like Leo and got the love and heartbreak out of the way so I could handle this relationship more smoothly. Classy like.

"Antonia was 23." My eyes bulge and my gaze shoots up to him as he continues, "And I didn't look 16. It was stupid and impulsive and cliche, but we had sex in my mother's office upstairs. No condom.

"Nine weeks later she walks into the gallery on a day I just happen to be working. I think she watched the place for a few days, but she never admitted it. In any case, she walks in and throws a handful of pregnancy tests at me and says it's mine."

He laughs at the memory and pulls me closer. In that moment I'm not sure if he's holding me or Antonia. I place a hand on Leo's arm and catch his eyes. It's me. And he's looking in me again. Not sure how he does it.

"So what happened next?"

He relaxes further in the bed, head against the pillowed headboard. "What usually happens. There was a big scene. I had a difficult choice to make. We got married. Had a kid. She couldn't stand being married. We got a divorce."

"Just like that?"

"Over the course of five years."

Five years? I'm not sure what number I'm expecting. One, maybe two years. My mother lasted three with my father, but five seems long. Seems like love.

"What are you thinking?" Leo asks softly, the words flowing through my hair and down to my ears.

The lump in my throat grows, but I swallow it. "Five years is a long time."

"Yes," he lets out a heavy breath, "it is."

I'm not sure what to me to say, so I remain quiet.

"The lawyer fees were what stopped us from doing it sooner. Antonia wanted more than I had since she felt I took her best years. It's much harder for a woman to find someone once she's has a kid and been divorced."

"So she wanted to stay married?"

He laughed outright. "No. She hated my guts. I was never what she wanted. But I think she liked the idea of coming home to someone, of always having a person there for her.

"But her WVS was a problem for me. Especially when she fucked some guy in the backseat of our car and I found a used condom on Helmi's car seat. That was it. I didn't care how much she wanted or the lawyer's fees or the fact that Helmi wouldn't have her mother there whenever she needed her. Antonia messed up our bed and I was tired of remaking it."

Leo doesn't say anything else, and I don't ask anymore questions. The last 24 hours have been weighed down with family drama. Now that it's out, I don't want to think about it again, don't want to let another dark cloud hang over our trip.

The steady thud of Leo's heart under my ear is better than any lullaby, and before I know it I'm falling asleep again.

June 30

Leo and I find a rhythm, smoother and more relaxed than before. There's no sex, and that constant needy edge is filled with something deeper. It's nearly tangible between us, but I can't acknowledge it yet.

I always thought love was a four letter word said in the heat of the moment. Like a current that ebbs and flows. That's a paltry rendition of an emotion that isn't just a constant, but a living, breathing entity. There's something wholly terrifying about being in love.

Florence doesn't make it any easier. It's all soft sunsets, candlelit dinners, and quiet evenings on the hostel's terrace wrapped in each other's arms. We talk about the stupidest, most random stuff and I release the filter I always need alcohol to dissolve. Leo is a drug himself, heady and far too addictive.

It's maddening.

"What are you thinking about?" Leo presses the words into the nape of my neck.

I roll over in his arms, the sheets pulling at my waist, and run my hand over his face. He's let his stubble turn into a beard and it tangles with the mess of his hair. Sliding my leg over his hip, I get as close to him as I can. Three days left.

Where did the time go? It doesn't even feel like we've been together for two weeks let alone over a month. I crave him, find it hard to sleep without him. When he crawls out of bed for his 2AM pee (nearly always on the dot), I wake up. Lie, eyes wide open, waiting for him to crawl back between the sheets and curl his body around mine while I twine my legs around his.

Leo nips the pad of my finger, refocusing my gaze. I'm staring at his curved lips, the Cupid's bow of his mouth. Want to memorize everything about him and fixate on it. It'll take me years to get over him. To forget the feel of his fingers on my waist, his palm branding the small of my back, the little nips and bites on my fingers and neck, the eyes that see far too much, and the mouth that says exactly what I need to hear. He's not perfect, but he's real and solid.

Moving my hand around his neck to grip his hair in a tight fist, I tug him closer until I feel his lips move against mine. "I lo—"

The shrill sound of my phone cuts through the moment like a knife and I freeze. What the hell were the words coming out of my mouth?

Untwining myself from Leo, I draw in a deep breath and answer my phone. "What?"

"Oh my God, Rai," Kate whines and slurs through the receiver. "You sound exactly like Zora. Ugh. She's such an ugly thot."

I swing my legs over the bed and sit up. "Are you drunk?"

"No, no, no, no," she assures before giggling. "Yes. Sorry. Yes, I'm drunk. Like so drunk. Can you come pick me up?"

"Kate, you know I'm still backpacking right?"

"What? You're still doing that?" I hear something fall and break before Kate is chanting, "Shit, shit, shit."

"Kate," I say sharpley, the situation going from mildly irritating to dangerously worrisome. "How many drinks have you had?"

"Richard," she yells to someone, "How many drinks have I had?"

In an instant there is another voice on the phone, male and annoyed. "Hello?"

"Yes?"

"You need to come pick your friend up. She's fucking wasted."

"I can't. I'm in Italy."

"What do you mean?"

I wonder if this dude is drunk too. "Italy. The country. I'm backpacking."

"Shit." I can feel his frustration through the phone. "Can you call someone?"

"What time is it there?"

"Five."

"In the afternoon? Man, you guys start—"

"In the morning."

Shit. "Look," I sigh, climbing out of bed and throwing on the closest thing: Leo's t-shirt and briefs. "I don't know anyone who'll be up at five. The only other girl I know who could probably do it lives in bumfuck nowhere right now. Probably wouldn't be able to get there until seven—eight at the earliest."

He's quiet, but I can hear him breathing. "I'll take her home."

"Have you been drinking?"

"Yeah, but I stopped two hours ago."

"And just decided to stay at the party for kicks?"

"More to keep your girl from getting raped."

His words hit me like a slap, the reality of her situation kicking in. There's less than nothing I can do. I don't have her parent's number, can't call the police because it'll direct me back to this country, and can't even tell anyone where she is because I have absolutely no clue where that is. "Put Kate on the phone."

She's back in a second, sounding drunker with every word. "Rai, Rai, Rai, I didn't even want to call you. But Richard—such a fuckboi that I want to fuck but I'm gonna throw up. Where's the—"

I pull the phone away as Kate retches only to place it back to my ear when Richard's voice comes through again. "Fuck. Where's she live?"

A part of me knows giving him her address would be stupid, but my choices are limited: let her stay at a party where she could get raped or let a guy take her home and know where she lives. I hate those options.

"Got a pen?"

"Shoot."

I give him her apartment and the room number, doubtful that Kate will have enough sense to find her way. "Can you text me when you drop her off?"

"Sure. What's your number?"

I rattle it off and ask him to send a trial text to make sure it works with the excuse that the connection here is shit. I add his number and first name, waiting before I save it. "I'm Raiqah Hussein by the way. Thank you so much for helping my friend . . ."

"Richard Millar. With an A. Want my social security number, too?"

A wry smile flits across my face. "I won't go to that extreme. Your tax info will do."

He barks a laugh but it's strained. "I'll make sure to text, though I doubt I'll leave her. She's so out of it I'm worried she might choke on her own vomit."

"Think she has alcohol poisoning?"

"Maybe. If it gets really bad I'll take her to the ER."

I send up a small prayer, hoping he's an actual good guy and I'm not placing my friend in even more danger. "Thanks."

The line cuts and I let out a massive sigh, already going through a mental checklist of all the shit I have to do. Calling Em's at the top of the list.

"Is Kate going to be okay?" Leo asks as I pull up my friend's number.

I shrug. "There's definitely something wrong. I'm calling Em to see if she can check up on her."

Moving toward the small balcony of our hostel, I press the phone to my ear and wait.

"Hello?" she answers groggily after the sixth ring.

"Em. It's me."

"You better be fucking dying," she groans, half the words muffled by a pillow.

"Kate's drunk and some Good Samaritan is driving her ass home."

"And?"

"Well seeing as I don't know him and she can't even remember that I'm not in the country and can't pick her up, I thought I'd call the only other person who can do anything."

"How drunk are we talking?"

"She threw up while on the phone with me and she could barely string two words together."

"Fuuuck," she moans. I hear the rustle of sheets and the creak of springs. "It'll take me at least three hours to get there."

"That's fine. The guy said he'd stay with her until she could take care of herself."

Em pauses, "How safe is this dude?"

"On a scale of one to ten? I don't fucking know. We talked for like five minutes."