Page 21 of Secrets in Love
“In what? Ask me, Evie. Am I interested in what?”
“Are you interested in…” A familiar dread settled over me like a weighted blanket, and I paused, just for a moment. Two heavy breaths were enough to remind me who I was, who he was, and what we should never be. “Me…and Iris, baking?
I was certain his sigh and extended mumbling could be heard on the neighboring farm. “Baking?
“Yeah, baking. Iris and I are making a cake when I get back, and maybe we can Facetime then too so you can see your number-one girl.”
Nate’s gorgeous face was covered by his hand, rubbing it in what appeared to be frustration, so his words were muffled, but I’m pretty sure I heard him say something like, “Fucking jeepers, help me. ”Are you sure that’s all you wanted to ask me, Gidge?”
“Yep! Positive. One hundred and ten percent sure…why? Did you think I was going to ask you something else?
“Honestly? Yeah, I did for a second, and it made me really happy.
“It did?”
“Yep. Do you want to know what I thought you were going to ask? And even more importantly, do you want to know how I would have answered?”
I did. I really, really did. But I couldn’t. Not yet. Not now. So, I lied.
“Oh, Iris is calling me, Nate. I better go. Talk later?”
Graciously, Nate let the fact that Iris was not with me, that she was likely still tucked up in bed, and that I was a terrible liar, all slide. He couldn’t conceal his emotion so easily. His face was the love child of crushed, confused, and pissed.
“Of course. Sure thing. Call me when you start baking. Oh, and Aoife… Just so you know, when I call or message and ask about my number-one girl…as much as I adore her, I’m not asking about Iris. I’m asking about you.”
Evie
Ever met a panic chucker? Do you even know what a panic chuck is? How about just a chuck?
A chuck is a vomit, a barf, a puke, a spew, a hurl. A panic chuck is when you get yourself so worked up, ridiculously and absolutely riddled with worry, that you chuck. A panic chucker is someone who has chosen or had this lifestyle thrust upon them.
I am the latter. I am a regular panic chucker, not by choice.
See, on the outside, I could come across as a tiny bit grumpy…crabby…maybe even icy. And to be honest, I liked that and worked hard to push that image. I felt it kept me safe from those clowns I liked to call the general public, and I needed that because, despite the crispy shell, I had a soft, creamy, chocolatey center. I was an absolute nut job who worried excessively over what people did, thought, and said about me.
The grumpiness was just basic math. The fewer people around me, the less I had to worry, and the less I was inclined to chuck.
After ending the call, the one where I learnedIwas the number-one girl Nate religiously checked on, I—at the risk of sounding super Aussie—fertilized that plot of land more than a year’s supply of hand-tossed, nutrient-rich compost ever could.
That’s right. Chucked my freaking guts up. I’d like to say I felt better afterward. That it was cleansing or cathartic. But that would have been a damn lie.
I felt worse. Ten times worse.
I smelled worse too. Especially when trudging back to the house with vomit-soaked shoes. You’d think I would have developed better aim after years of this, but no.
Back at our temporary home, I partook in a final little retch beneath the glorious cover of a maple tree, then ventured inside, hoping to God I could make it to the bathroom undetected.
I did not.
Jocelyn sprang out from behind a door, but I didn’t slow. “Evie Austen, stop right there.”
“Can’t stop. Slipped in cow poop. Need a shower.”
“Don’t lie to me, girl. We may be in the countryside, but there are no cows within cooee of here. You’ve been vomiting, haven’t you?”
My aunt’s freaky magic-psychic shit freaked me out. “How in the hell did you—”
“I saw you under the tree.”
