It was so late when I got back that I didn’t want to text or call Luna, but I couldn’t wait to go over to her shop the next day and let her know I’m back. I had grand plans about walking in, turning the sign around to closed, locking the door, and showing her just how glad I am to see her again before taking Milo for an afternoon of spoiling and doing whatever he would like to do.
I say I had grand plans because that was six days ago.
Sometimes, the universe loves you, and sometimes, it hates you. Sometimes, a person realizes that the airport meal they scarfed down was a bad idea, especially when it was chicken that tasted a little off. I normally have a stomach of steel. Normally. But not this time.
My arrival back in New Orleans was followed by a middle-of-the-night wake-up because my stomach hurt like I was trying to digest barbed wire and razor blades. This was followed by me crawling to the bathroom because it hurt too much to stand upright and then ejecting everything I’ve eaten for at least the past…well, maybe my whole life, out of my body.
That trend continued for two days, and by day three, I was so worn out and dehydrated that I couldn’t get out of bed. I did text Luna the first day to tell her I was sick and how I figured it was food poisoning. I thought days four and five would be the recovery bit, but all I could do was sleep. Today is day six, and blitzen, mitzen, shitzen, I feel no better. I’m still in bed—flat on my back with no prospects of getting vertical anytime soon—when my phone dings on the nightstand.
I have a glass of water there, but I’ve barely been able to stomach it. It’s bad when I can’t even bring myself to drink a sip of water.
I know I should have given Luna an update, but I just didn’t have the energy to even grab my phone and type a message. That’s how wiped I’ve been. I didn’t think anything could take me down like this, but gosh darn it. I guess if anything could, it’s airport chicken.
I swear I’m never eating chicken again for as long as I live.
I reach for my phone, and even that action exhausts me. I practically see stars just by shifting over and bringing my phone up to my face to read it. The screen says it’s from Luna, or I probably wouldn’t bother. After a few minutes, I finally get the message open even though I nearly blackout doing it. It takes me a few deep breaths before I can get my eyes to focus on the words. The text is long, but I start reading.
Toren, I didn’t want to have to type this. I kept waiting, telling myself I’m wrong. But it’s been a week. You haven’t gone to the hospital, and how long can food poisoning last anyway? I have a little boy here who keeps asking me where his dad is. I keep telling him you’re sick, but I’m starting to wonder. I’m starting to wonder if I made a mistake letting you back into our lives. There isn’t any room this time for panic and running. Not when you have a child who depends on you. If you’re a dad, then you’re a dad for life. I know you have a history, so I’m not saying this lightly. I know you know all that, but I’ll say I’m confused and hurt. If you bailed on us, so help me, I’ll find you, and I’ll cut off your nuts and make a special brand of earrings just for you. Maybe I’ll cut off other things and make you wear them to match. Dicklace has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Anyway, it sounds like I’m making light of this, but I’m not. Please, message me back. Or better yet, get your butt down here and prove I didn’t just make the biggest mistake of my life.
To say I have a little bit of a freak out means I shove the covers back and explode out of bed so fast that I land right on my face in a tangled heap. And on hardwood, nonetheless.
“Ouch!” I reach for my nose, which broke the fall, and then I reach for my mouth, which also took the brunt of the impact. Nothing feels broken. Thank god. And there isn’t any blood.
Somehow, after a few excruciating minutes, I manage to get myself upright. The first order of business is to hit the shower since I know I smell like something death regurgitated. Ugh, I don’t want to think about regurgitation for the rest of my life. However, thinking about getting in there is more than I can deal with. As it is, I can barely drag myself over to the dresser to get some clothes on, and sliding into a t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans uses up what little energy I have left. My jeans fit loose, and even the t-shirt feels bigger. Have I really lost that much weight?