I made the choice to pack up my things and walk away.
“Do you think he’s mad at me?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
Nova tilts her head. “Mad? No. Hurt? Probably.”
I nod slowly, picking at a spinach leaf.
“I don’t know Skaggs as well as you do,” she says. “But I don’t think he’s the type of man to throw tantrums. He goes quiet. Pulls everything inward the same way you do.”
“I told him I didn’t need anything.”
“Yeah,” she says, leaning in. “But do youwantsomething?”
Of course I do.
I want him.
I pick at my salad, nibbling at the purple flower. It’s bitter. And oddly enough: soapy?
My stomach lurches at the taste in my mouth.
I press my hand to my middle, trying to keep my expression neutral, but the wave hits fast—nausea creeping up my throat like it has a vendetta.
Nova’s still talking, but her words fade into background fuzz. The world tips just slightly sideways, and all the air seems to vanish from the café.
“Hey,” I say quickly, pushing back my chair with a squeak. “I need a minute.”
Nova’s brows pull together. “Poppy?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, already halfway out of my seat. “I just—bathroom. Too much hydration or something.”
I make a beeline past the servers, past the neon signs and the girl taking selfies with her avocado toast, and duck into the bathroom at the back.
Instant sensory overload.
Pink.So much pink.
Floral wallpaper wraps the walls in an aggressive explosion of white roses, like being swallowed whole by a botanical barf. The tile floor is a shiny blush-and-hot pink checkerboard, every surface gleaming like it was polished with Windex.
The air smells like citrus and expensive hand soap. There’s a tiny framed print that says“You look amazing.”
I do not feel amazing.
I feel like shit.
I barely make it to the toilet before I’m on my knees, clutching the seat like it’s a lifeline.
My stomach turns inside out. Again.
I have nothing left to give. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not even stomach acid. Just dry heaves and silent curses and the overwhelming urge to evaporate into thin air.
I rest my forehead against the cool porcelain, eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep it together. Which is ironic, considering the literal puddle of disaster I am right now.
Someone knocks.
Not on the stall door—but on the bathroom door itself.
Then I hear her voice.
