Page 94 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
I moan. I ache all over, but not because of Mike. He can say and do whatever he likes. It means nothing to me. So what if he called me beautiful? He’s called me a lot of other things besides—difficult, prickly,insane, a cactus. I don’t care. I’m living my best life, and—
Oh, who am I kidding? I am a cactus and a fraud. You don’t sob all night over a man who means nothing to you. You don’t feel faint and feverish when you replay in your head the time he called you beautiful. You don’t fall asleep with his annotated volume of sonnets under your pillow just to feel close to him. You certainly don’t imagine what would have happened if you’d kissed him that night at the pier instead of running back to Del Mar.
I curl into a ball and whimper, but I know it has nothing to do with my fever. I, Beatrice Hero McKinney, against mybetter judgment and last shreds of sanity, am in love with Mike Benedick, whom I cannot stand. Whom I’ve sworn to the universe many times over and through lots of hysteric sobbing that I hate. Passionately. And I do. I hate him. And I love him, and I can’t read fiction without thinking of him. And he called me beautiful and a cactus, and I am literally burning up thinking about it. So why am I so cold?
I pull an extra blanket up to my chin and shiver myself back into a fretful slumber. Maybe it’s not glass lodged in my throat, but spines finally bursting through my skin.
Chapter 30
“This place is adorable.”
I must still have a fever, because I think I hear my mom’s voice outside on my patio as she asks, “You sure you don’t want to stay?”
Indistinct muffled male voice is all I hear, followed by the clatter of my mom’s kitten heels.
“No wonder you haven’t invited me over. You’ve wanted to keep that charming young man all to yourself, haven’t you?”
I feel a cool hand on my forehead and whimper. “Mom? Why are you here?”
“You texted me.”
“No, I didn’t… Did I?” My head is swimming.
“Of course you did. Just now. You’re lucky I was in the area. What hurts?” Mom runs her hand along my hair.
“Everything.”
I hear the beep of a thermometer. “All right, come on,” Mom says. “Time to go to the doctor.”
“I can’t even stand, let alone wait for hours at urgent care.”
“Don’t be silly. Pauline and Harry live just blocks away. Up you go. Now, are you going to throw up in the car? If that’s a yes, we’ll take yours.”
“I’m too tired to be nauseated.”
“Let’s go,” Mom says, pulling me out of bed. “I parked in the alley.”
“You can’t do that.” I want to argue, but it doesn’t change the fact that Molly McKinney does what she wants.
“Oh, what happened?” A genteel woman of my mother’s age says when we pull into a driveway ten minutes later.
“Bea, isn’t feeling well.”
“I can see that. Harry, get my bag, will you?” The bald, mustached gentleman on the porch heads into the house.
“Come around back, sweetie. I’ve got a nice sunny spot on the patio.”
I make it around the house but crumple into the fetal position on the closest chaise.
Her hands are cold, but they feel so good against my forehead. More cool hands on my neck. Pushing on my belly.
“Thanks for being willing to give her a once-over, Pauline. How are you, Harry?” Mom’s chatting like we’re at a garden party.
“Oh, fine. Fine.” Harry says, setting a medical bag next to Pauline.
“I’m glad you thought of me.” She pulls out a stethoscope. “Breathe in deep, Beatrice.”
I moan first, but I do.
