Page 42 of No Interest in Love

She rolls her eyes, and I give her the red-framed glasses. After settling them in place, she slowly puts her hands on the seats behind her and pushes herself up. I follow because she looks wobbly on her feet, but that could be the movement of the train, which isn’t exactly pleasant.

“I’m fine,” she says before plopping into one of the seats. She grabs the fresh T-shirt. “Turn around, please?”

“Not gonna let me watch?” I tease as I turn my back to her. Crouching down, I find myself trying to locate a reflective surface. But I screw my head back on before I search too hard.

Shay tosses the bloody shirt at me and I stuff it into the laundry bag in my suitcase. She makes a huffy noise, and I don’t mean to, but I glance over my shoulder.

The shirt’s on, but the sleeveless holes hang lower on her tiny frame, showing off her red bra.

And my brain…jumps ship.

“I don’t think this one’s going to work,” she says with a laugh. I think I laugh too. But it probably comes out like Elmer Fudd.

“That’s a red bra,” I blurt. Something glugs in my stomach, and at first I think it’s Shay and the sensations I’m experiencing with her suddenly jumping up to a whole new level. But the train lurches, and I realize that it’s that cheese wiener I ate earlier, and it’s barking pretty loudly.

She pulls at the sleeve holes and blows out a breath at her exposed skin. I blink and push back whatever part of my stomach is rushing up my throat.

“Can I ruin it?”

“Huh?”

“The shirt.”

I can’t think, but I manage a half smile at her. “It’s inevitable, right?”

She gives me one short nod and grabs at the fabric dangling off her arm. “Turn around again?”

I wonder if she can tell I’m not doing so well. I hold on to the wall, close my eyes, and try to ignore the way the floor jostles everything in my gut.

A loudriiiipsounds through the cabin, and I let out a tiny laugh that stops as soon as it starts, since I don’t want to spew everywhere.

“You owe me a couple of shirts now,” I mutter.

“When I get you that contract, I’ll buy you a closet full of ugly T-shirts.”

“I pull them off.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t show up in one at the premiere.”

I nod and blow a breath at the floor. “Landon got away with it.”

“Yes, but he’s got an image now. He’s the director with the baseball cap, graphic tees, and on fancy occasions a sports jacket. That works for him.”

“Hate to break it to you, but he’s taken.” I hear another tear as she rips more of my shirt. “What are you doing exactly?”

“Tying the sides so they fit.”

I almost tell her that she could probably tear it in half and it would still be too big, but the train keeps on chugging, and I end up asking, “You almost done? I gotta sit down.”

“Give me one more sec…”

Ten thousand years later, during which my stomach acid tsunamis into my throat and is forced down every few seconds, Shay tells me she’s good, and I plop into the seat opposite her, pinching my nose and tilting my head back.

“You okay?” she asks. I can feel her shifting around, but I don’t dare open my eyes just yet.

“Motion sickness. It’ll go away when I get used to it.”Hopefully. I get nauseous on planes, but they even out and stop wiggling unless there’s wicked turbulence. The tracks feel like mile-high speed bumps at this point. And I gotta suck it up because we have a long way to go.

Shay’s knees bump into mine slightly, and she lets out a strangled breath.

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