Page 26 of Every Chance After

Ivy might be the first person in history to wear me out.

And I’m still not hungry.

Ashe settles into the visitor’s chair after a short kiss. “Brought you coffee.”

“I see. Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Getting there,” I smile. I edge the rolling IV aside, staving off nausea with measured breaths. Ivy and I have only just returned from our power (no power) walk. The movement mixed with the meds has turned my stomach.

“Here you go, hon.” Ivy bounds into the room with an icy ginger ale.

I take a small sip through the crooked straw that immediately disappoints her.

“Come on. You can do better than that. You got this.”

My head spins with the hundreds of times I’ve said that to Sunny’s employees, always with the same encouraging smile and upbeat tenor. Though it’s my job to inspire excellent customer service, I see now, with Ivy’s persistence, how it may come across as annoying.

No, she’s not annoying. She’s motivating.

I take another small sip. “Thanks, Ivy. This is Ashe, my fiancé.”

“Nice to see you. Marnie could use the company,” she says, checking my IV and updating her tablet.

“Ashe, could you get my cardigan and fuzzy socks from the suitcase?” I ask, my voice weak. I’m the textbook definition of miserable—chilly, in agony, nauseous, and wondering how I’ll feel better when it hurts so badly now. I’m not my usual Marnie self and need my little comforts.

“Sure thing.” He goes to my secondhand, honeymoon-ready suitcase and opens it on another chair. He brought it last night—my entire ten-day supply of beach clothes and sexy lingerie for Jamaica—and though, yes, technically, it has everything I need, it has most things I don’t. He sifts through my neat packing, pulling out my long, pink cardigan and fuzzy sleep socks.

“And my brush and a scrunchie,” I tack on, twiddling my damp hair between deep breaths.

In his efforts, he knocks the suitcase over, spilling everything onto the floor. Then, he fumbles, putting it all together again, picking up armloads of jumbled clothes and piling them on top.

He almost looks nervous.

My stomach shifts, and my head swims—a headache pecks at my temple. I reach for the plastic container on my cluttered rolling table and spit up the fizzy ginger ale in a sickening gag.

“It’s because you haven’t eaten,” Ivy decides, hand going to my back in soft circles like I’m a baby. “Try to relax.”

My abdomen clenches with the effort, forcing tears into my eyes. I cough and spit up again. It hurts so sharply that I fear my stitches will burst open.Could that happen?

Hot tears slip down my cold cheeks—pained tears are acceptable.A body must what a body must.Still, I feel embarrassed as the spell passes. I glance up to gauge Ashe’s reaction.

He’s not there.

Ivy shrugs beside me. “He said something about the vending machine.”

She goes to the abandoned pile of clothes, unabashedly searching for my requests, and finds them quickly. She drapes the sweater over my shoulders and helps me into the sleeves. Then, she kneels, pulling on my socks.

“He’s handsome,” she smirks. “I bet the wedding would’ve been gorgeous.”

“Red, white, and pink,” I mutter, “for Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s not unusual for people to feel distressed, watching a loved one in pain,” she offers in Ashe’s defense.

“He means well, but he’s no carer. He’s not used to it.”

She nods, gently easing my legs under the covers and tucking me in. “Breakfast will be here soon. We’ll try something easy on the stomach. Toast, grits, and maybe some eggs.”

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