Page 9 of Cabins Cows Critics
“Oh, we will,” she replies with a grin.
I’m about ten minutes out of town when the first stomach rumble starts. It’s been forever since I’ve had anything but almond milk, but I figured I’d be good with lite. It was really only full-cream milk that I had any issues with before. But as my stomach growls louder, churning in a sickening swirl, and when I swallow, it’s like it’s sitting in my stomach wanting to bubble up any minute. I push my foot down on the gas.
“Whoa, you alright there?” Wendy asks.
“Not really. I think that coffee wants to make a reappearance.”
“Oh no, maybe you should pull over?”
“I’m not throwing up on the side of the road. The ranch isn’t far. I can make it.”
“Do you want me to drive?”
“No. I’ll be okay,” I say, hoping I’m right. I turn off the heater and crack my window, much to Wendy’s protests. But I’m praying it will help me control my urge to throw up.
I’m going twenty miles over the limit signs, but I don’t care. Every corner makes the contents of my stomach swish and swirl, threatening to come up, and I start breathing through my nose alone, swallowing slowly, not wanting to add more liquid to the churning pot. It wouldn’t be any good pulling over, I would be too paranoid someone would see me throwing up, that I’d be unable to actually do it, and I’m guessing it’s only getting all the milk out of my gut that will help me feel any better.
“What is this idiot doing?” I say, hitting the brakes behind a pickup truck that’s going twenty under. The tires skid on the wet dirt road, kicking up mud behind us.
“Seriously, hurry up,” I say, beeping the horn. I see his head tilt so that he can check his rearview, and then he shakes his head.
I beep again.
“Chill, man, you’re going to get us murdered out here in the wild if you keep that up. Remember that Australian movie about the guy who was a dick to a local and then the local guy tracked him down and gutted him?”
“This isn’t Australia. And he’s not even going the fucking limit. Come onnnn,” I say, beeping again and again.
“Just go around him.”
“Or he can just go the actual speed.”
I dry heave, and my stomach swirls again, and finally, this jerk pulls over to the side of the road, and I zoom past.
“Way to drive dickhead,” I yell on the way past, and Wendy chuckles beside me.
“You know you could just pull over.”
“I will when we get there,” I say, and the notification on the map tells me to pull in at the next driveway. “Finally.”
I pull into the small parking lot, the tires skidding to a stop, and the engine is off, and I’m out the door before the dust settles. I spot the trash can behind a blue Chevy and make it there before the first convulsion brings everything up out of my stomach.
“Are you okay?” Wendy calls, and I wave a hand over my head. The trash can is pretty well hidden, thank god. My fingers grip the rounded edge, the cold metal chilling me to my core as I heave for a good minute before I finally feel empty.
“Here,” Wendy says, passing me a bottle of water.
“Thanks.”
“So are you going to tell me why you couldn’t do that on the side of the road?”
“I’ve never been able to throw up in public.”
“You just threw up in a parking lot.”
“Yeah, but I was hidden by the Chevy, and it was into a trash can.”
“As opposed to behind the car in a ditch?”
“Exactly.”
