Page 44 of Free Heart
But, fuck, it’s gonna cost us everything we have to get to that point. My smile falls. I just hope it doesn’t cost us our relationship.
It’s hard to know what Dan’s thinking. What if eventually he wants me gone despite our declarations of seahorse and angelfish? What if he stops being happy with me if I don’t want to fuck him right now? What if he starts to feel like he’s stuck with me because no one else can take care of him?
My steps falter on the way up to the small porch at the front entrance to Tater Tots.
It’s time for my game face. When I’m with the kids, I have to shove all the heaviness and fear aside and act joyful. It’s a fake it ’til you make it kind of thing and fake it I do.
I love the way the music and the kids’ laughter pull me out of my head. I wonder if I can convince Dan to come down to town with me one morning, once he’s in a moonboot of course, to watch them. He likes children, or he likes Jeanie anyway.
The morning starts off well. The kids are a riot, and within a few minutes I’m smiling more genuinely than I have in weeks. Playing a bunch of their old favorites—I’ve been too preoccupied to keep up with new KPop releases and haven’t watched an Astro VLive since the day of the accident—I’m feeling in better spirits already.
We have two new little ones in my class, a pair of siblings, Byron and Ada, and they both love dancing. In only a few days, they’ve picked up the moves to most of the songs. They are, like all the kids, adorable. Both of them have curly brown hair and deep, soulful eyes.
We’re in the middle of the BTS song “Butter” when Byron breaks formation. He waddles over to me with a strange gait, looking worried. “Mr. Sejin?”
“What’s wrong, bud?” I get down to his level and push his curls off his forehead, taking in his shiny eyes and darkened cheeks. “Are you feeling bad?”
“Yes,” he says emphatically, and then, like a pitcher full of nothing good, he tips forward and pukes.
A lot.
Onme.
In myhair.
On myclothes.
The scent is visceral, and I gag too, almost vomiting on myself, but managing to turn and puke a little on the floor behind me instead. Byron bursts into tears, and I almost do the same. Wetness gathers in my eyes as I try to keep from heaving again. All the other kids scream and choruses of “ew” and “gross” rise all around—as well as dangerous gagging sounds. Are we going to have a full-on puke-fest? I don’t know. All I know is I’m coated in Byron’s yack right now.
I heave again.
Jeanie runs to the offices, calling for Evelyn and Heather. I stand in a daze, my hand on Byron’s heaving shoulder, as they both rush out to discover the disgusting mess Byron and I have made. While Evelyn grabs up Byron and hustles him over to the children’s bathroom, Heather motions me toward the adult washroom, which has only a sink and a single toilet.
She leaves me alone in there to deal with the mess on the floor. I gaze at myself in the mirror briefly. I’m disgusting. I take off my shirt and jeans, needing to get the vomit out of my hair first. Feeling like I might puke again, I start the hot water and squirt a ton of soap into my hand.
As I wash my hair out in the sink, I’m trembling all over. The hand soap smells like apple cinnamon. I pull out chunks of vomit and tears fill my eyes again. I wash it again and again, and when I try to rinse my hair out, it grows tangled with the rough soap.
When I’ve gotten my hair and clothes as clean as possible with the limited space in the sink, I dress myself in them again. Vomit-scent clings to me as I lean against the laminated counter and stare at myself in the mirror. I look so old and so fucking tired.
My hair is wetagain, and I’m soaked all over from trying to wash the vomit out. I’ve still got a half hour here, and then I have to go right to Papa Bear. My head hurts. I feel like screaming.
I can’t do this. Not today.
The knock at the door is Heather, and she passes my backpack in along with a plastic bag and a sympathetic grimace. “I’m sorry,” she says simply.
“Thanks.”
“You got everything you need in that bag to make it home at least?” she asks.
I don’t tell her I’m not going home. I just say, “Yeah,” and close the door again.
I change my clothes, which means putting on my Papa Bear uniform early, and I pull my wet hair back in the ponytail. I swear I can still smell puke in it, but it’s probably from my shirt, which I’ve put into the bag Heather gave me. I wash my hands again and try to get a grip on my revulsion and upset.
When I come out, Heather’s there waiting, and she pats my back. “Too much food at lunch,” she explains. “Turns out he ate not only his sandwich, but also Ada’s, Griffin’s, and Lila’s. You okay?”
“What’s a little barf in the scheme of things, am I right?” I ask, though I still want to cry or somehow miraculously be transported back in time to my mother’s arms. But I smile and tell Heather everything’s okay.
Because that’s my third job apparently—telling myself and everyone else that everything’s okay. Even when I feel like it’s really fucking not.
