Page 10 of Little Sunshine
“Ranch,” I answered without thought before realizing why he asked. I’d assumed the salad was for him. It would be in the end because I had no intention of eating anything other than the burger.
After the behemoth paid a far from cheap total, we moved over to the pickup area to wait.
Between the various smells and the heat emanating from the kitchens, my stomach began to churn. My appetite quickly faded, leaving nausea in its place. Saliva filled my mouth at an alarming rate.
At least I won’t embarrass myself by throwing up huge chunks… There’s nothing in there but stale black coffee and stomach acid.
Spots floated in my vision before it tunneled suddenly. My hands shot out to grip the counter as I fought to remain standing, but my movements were slow despite my panic. Everything shifted, and the world went sideways.
“Hey, whoa.” The behemoth caught me around the waist as I slumped, keeping me upright. He pulled his phone out, likely to call for help.
That was enough to jolt me out of my daze so I could force out, “I just need to eat something.”
“I’m calling an ambu?—”
“No, no. It’s just low blood sugar.”
If he called an ambulance, I’d have to explain that I had no insurance and no money to pay the hefty bill for their trip. I’d be in debt for the rest of my life, all so they could tell me what I already knew.
I needed food.
“Please. I swear, I’m fine,” I insisted.
He didn’t look convinced, but he helped me over to a chair and sat me down before crouching next to me. His worried gaze studied my face. “You’re pale.”
“I told you, I just need to eat.” But the thought of swallowing a single bite made my stomach twist.
With a scowl, he stood and returned to the counter. The cashier handed him the milkshake and an empty cup that he filled at the soft drink dispenser. He set them both on the table in front of me. “Drink.”
I only took the soda, sipping the unfamiliar sweet syrup. “Root beer?”
“Yes. It’ll help get your blood sugar up without adding caffeine to your system.” He nudged the milkshake closer. “This too.”
Unlike most of the population, I disliked chocolate. I could tolerate it in candy bars if there were other things—like caramel, cookie, or wafer—but I never chose plain chocolate anything.
“What’s wrong?” he asked when I made no move to take it.
“Nothing.” Not in a position to be picky about preferences, I took the heavy cup and forced myself to drink. It was cold and sugary, and I didn’t care that it tasted like artificial syrup. It was sustenance.
Kinda.
He watched me for a second before surmising, “You don’t like chocolate.”
“It’s fine.”
“What flavor do you want?”
“This is?—”
“Little girl, I asked you a question.”
I glared at him. “Don’t call me that.”
Apparently, he didn’t find a frail five-foot-one woman menacing because he ignored my snapped order. “Answer the question, little girl.”
“Chocolate is fine.”
“Tell me what flavor, or I’ll order every single one.”
